An Unexpected Kindness
by MarySkater
Summary: After a chance encounter with a homeless blind woman, the Phantom employs her as his housemaid. A maid in his house will make things more comfortable for Christine when she visits. But when will he realise that his secret doors, hidden from view, are not so secret to someone who finds her way by touch? Or that, lacking sight, her keen ears might overhear words not meant for her?
1. 1: Prologue

_**Author's note**_ _: "An Unexpected Kindness" is a revised and expanded version of my earlier story "Blind Love." The basic plot is the same, but this edition contains much new material._

1: Prologue

The restaurant's private dining room was luxuriously appointed, and the staff knew when to answer a call and when to withdraw discreetly. Odette lay on the velvet chaise longue, sobbing helplessly. A little while ago she had tried to scream. But her voice had been muffled, her breath almost stopped, by her skirts flung up and held over her face, while unspeakable things happened to her body. It was too late now.

She heard his footsteps moving to the door. "Stop snivelling," he snapped. "I've paid for the dinner, and there's money on the table for your cab fare home. What else did you expect, coming here with me? Stupid girl." Then he was gone.

What had she expected? She loved… she had thought she loved him. He had said that he loved her. Her parents had told her that young ladies did not go out without a chaperone. A silly rule, she had thought, and there were ways around it. She had friends, they exchanged visits… no one kept track of her every move. She was in love. It was exciting to trick her parents, to sneak away from time to time for secret meetings. Then tonight's candlelit dinner, soft words, delicate kisses on her hand, on her cheek… and suddenly she was helpless in the grip of a lustful fiend, scarcely understanding the cause of this obscene pain.

Eventually she made her way home, much later than she should have been. Her parents knew at a glance what had happened. They shouted and lectured, and swore that she would never be let out of the house again. Her father was a prosperous merchant, looking to make a place for himself in local politics. Her mother was keenly aware of her rising position in society. How dared Odette disgrace them this way? Odette accepted the penalty, knowing that she had brought it on herself, but inwardly resentful, for if she had been taught more of the ways of the world and of men, she might have known better than to place herself in danger. The man was gone, moved away, no one knew where.

The recriminations had scarcely begun to die away when they were fanned to new heat. Odette was with child. Plans were made. The neighbours would be told that she was ill, and had to go to a sanatorium for a while. Some distant place would be found for her to stay until her lying-in. Once she had recovered, and the baby was placed in an orphanage –

That was when Odette rebelled. She would never allow the child to be taken from her. The baby was not responsible for the manner of its conception, and Odette would not have it punished. She would raise it and care for it. "God send it be a boy. But if it is a girl, I shall make sure to educate her better than you educated me. Ignorance was my downfall. She shall know all there is to know about worldly matters. Consider this; I'll go away for a year. I'll come home wearing black, and call myself a widow."

"Little slut, you don't think we'll receive a bastard in this house?"

"Then throw me into the street. I'll starve on your doorstep, and tell everyone why."

A compromise was reached. Odette was to go away and change her name. If she wanted to call herself Madame instead of Mademoiselle, that was her business. The family would pay her an allowance for her lifetime, provided she never came near them or shamed them again. But the bastard would never have a penny from them.

Odette agreed to the terms, knowing that it might have been much harsher, that she might have been locked up in a lunatic asylum if her parents had insisted. She found an apartment, and told the neighbours a sad tale of how her husband had died in an accident, leaving her widowed and alone in the world. Though the story was false, her sadness was real, and earned her even more sympathy when her pregnancy began to show. When she tentatively asked advice, she was recommended to consult a nearby doctor, highly qualified and, so people said, highly regarded. Unsure if her allowance would cover his costs, but wanting the best for her unborn child, Odette sold the last of her jewellery to pay the doctor's fees.

But soon she regretted her choice. She wanted him to explain what was happening to her body, such a mystery to her. Initially his responses were soothing but unhelpful; "Don't bother your little head about such things." But his patience soon ran out – at the same time as her money ran short, she suspected. Then it was, "Don't ask questions, just do as I tell you." When her time came and the pain had her screaming, he snapped that it was natural for birth to hurt, and she just had to endure it.

When her child was born a girl, and blind, she hardly knew which was the worse misfortune. A thought crossed her mind that she should hate this baby who had cost her so much, and yet when she held her daughter in her arms, she felt only love for her, a treasure bought with great pain. Odette vowed to cherish her and teach her, to give her all the skills and knowledge that she would need to survive. Money was tight, and as soon as the child was old enough to be left with someone else, Odette went out to work, so that they could afford a few little luxuries. They managed, and her daughter grew up knowing she was loved.

Until Odette died, and everything changed.

O-O-O O-O-O


	2. 2: Foundling

PART ONE: ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

2: Foundling

The cellar was empty, cold and quiet. Like an animal hunted to its lair, she huddled in a corner, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for whatever new evil might present itself. She tried to stay quiet, but sometimes the sobbing broke from her. She understood what had been done to her. Her mother had warned her of what bad men would do to an unprotected woman… what had once been done to her mother, that resulted in her own birth. History repeats itself.

After a long time, a soft movement came to her ears. Not from the direction of the street, where she had come in, but from the back wall, which had seemed blank and solid. There was a scraping sound of stone, and a man's voice, harsh, angry. "How did you come here? You have no business here."

Her head turned a little towards the street, to the iron grating. At the base of a wall on the street, she had fallen through it to the cellar, and accepted the refuge. She had tried to push the grating back into place, but it did not seem to fit properly. The man crossed the floor quickly, and she heard the click as the grating was secured. "How did you open it?" he demanded. "The catch is hidden. No one should be able to find it."

"I…" Her throat felt harsh, her voice scarcely a whisper. She coughed and tried again. "I fell against it… took hold of the bars for support. I felt something move… and it opened. I needed a place to hide…"

"I will let you out. You can go home."

"I have no home. The apartment… my mother paid the rent. But my mother died, and I have no money. The landlord threw me out. He took all my possessions… said it was owed to him…"

"Then you can live on the streets," he replied callously. "Many do."

"I know. You will throw me out as my landlord did. But I have no more possessions for you to steal. The… the only other thing I valued… was taken from me… just a few hours ago…"

Light footsteps came closer. Perhaps, in the gloom of the cellar, he was taking in her appearance, the state of her clothing, the tear-tracks on her face. "Oh. I understand." His voice was softer now. "Well… perhaps I owe you something, for pointing out the weakness in my defences. If you come with me, I will take you to a place where you can rest – rest alone," he added, as she drew herself into a tighter huddle. "If you will not, then it must be the street. When day comes, people can see into this room. It must look empty and abandoned."

After all, what did it matter, now? "I will come," she answered tonelessly.

There was a pause, then he said impatiently, "Well, if you will not take my hand, get up by yourself."

"Your hand?" She raised her own hand, uncertainly. There was a soft exclamation, and the smell of a lantern. A hand took her chin and tilted her face up.

"You're blind!"

"Yes," she replied wearily. "From birth. And I have been told many times, my eyes are white and dead, horrible to look upon."

After a pause, he replied, "I am the last person who should reproach you for your appearance." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then led her to the back of the room. "Reach out and feel the doorway. It is narrow."

She touched the sides of the opening, cold stone, and eased herself through. There was more scraping as he closed the door behind them. With her hand on his arm, he led her for some time through chill corridors and down ramps. Eventually, after passing through a wooden door, she felt the space of a room about her, and it was warmer. He led her to a chair, left her for a few minutes and returned with a tray which he placed on a table beside her, guiding her hand to it. "The large goblet has water, the smaller one wine. There is bread and cheese on the plate. Refresh yourself, while I prepare a place for you to sleep."

She drank the water thirstily, and tasted the wine, but she had no stomach for food. After a long time, he returned.

"You… what is your name?"

"Madeleine." She did not offer a surname. That might lead to other questions which she had no strength to face. But he accepted her terse answer.

"Very well, Madeleine, come with me." He took her hand; his touch was rather cold. She had noticed that before, without really thinking about it. Like marble… no, like leaves on a branch, cool but alive. Along a passage, he stopped and put her hand on a door. "This is a store-room. Rather cluttered, and with few comforts. But the door can be locked from inside. I thought you would prefer that." Inside, there was a camp-bed, a chair and a small table, squeezed amongst piles of boxes. "There is a rail here with some gowns and robes, if you wish to change your clothes. Now, come back to the passage. Reach your right hand to the wall. I have strung a cord there. Follow it… yes… this door is a bathroom. Feel free to use it." He guided her around the various fittings. "Confine your movements to your room and the bathroom, or you will get lost. If you have all you need, I will leave you to rest, and call you in the morning."

His soft footsteps moved away. She never knew if her tentative, "Thank you, Monsieur," was heard.

Madeleine washed herself, again and again, and washed the clothes she had been wearing. Wrapped in a borrowed robe, she followed the guide-cord back to her room and locked the door. To be clean, to be secure… it was what she yearned for. How had he known? His manner was brusque, with little of kindness. He treated her as a problem to be dealt with, not a fellow-creature to be helped. Yet his way of dealing with the problem had given her what she needed. He had been angry when he first found her, but… his anger was cold. He was controlled. Yes, that was it. Those men who… those other men… they had no control. They laughed, shouted, staggered drunkenly, swore. This man may have been irritated by her presence, but he had allowed her a locked door. Her mind dwelt on him, as a way to avoid thinking of other things, until eventually she slept.

O-O-O

A soft tap on the door; "Madeleine?"

"Yes, Monsieur." Already up and dressed, she opened the door to him.

"An early riser, I see. Come then, and have some breakfast."

He took her to another room and seated her by a table. Her hands roved delicately across the table, locating things. She did not touch the food, but sometimes lifted a dish so that she could smell it. "Bread, butter, coffee… May I have some of these?"

"Yes. Whatever you like." She sensed him watching as she helped herself, then she heard the movement as he sat and began to eat.

"How did you live, before your mother died?" he asked after a while. She became more aware of how pleasing his voice was, now that his initial anger at finding her was gone. "Were there just the two of you?"

"Yes. My mother worked in a shop… she was well-spoken and she dressed nicely, so the customers liked her. I mostly stayed at home. I made things for the shop. I can knit and sew… at least, I could. Now I have lost my belongings… the little device to help me thread needles, other things to take the place of sight. I cooked for us, kept the apartment clean, tried to be useful."

"Do you know where you are, now?"

"I have been thinking. I ran from… from the place I wanted to get away from. When I stumbled and fell against your grating, I was at the back of the Opera House. I think that basement room must have been part of the building. We walked a long way from there, but we never came outside. I think we must still be under the Opera House. They tell me it is huge – a city in its own right."

"That is true, with its own population. I live here, in a small corner of the many basements."

"And then the clothes you left for me, even this dress. The fabrics are heavier than normal, but they are much worn and mended. Costumes, perhaps? Not ordinary clothes? Understand, I make no complaint. I am very grateful."

"You have a brain, I see. And your hands make some compensation for your lack of sight. Well, what now? Is there anywhere you wish to go? Do you have friends, relatives? What would you like to do now?"

"I have… no one. Nowhere to go. I wish… I wish there was some work I could do, honest work to earn my living. I fear, though, that there is only one kind of work open to me now. If I must, I will do that, rather than starve. But I wish I had any other choice."

"You would not be too proud to do housemaid's work?"

"Too proud! I would welcome such a chance. I can wash dishes, do laundry, simple cooking. But with my blindness, my ghastly eyes, with no references… who would employ me?"

"Listen, then. I live alone here, for reasons which I will not explain, and you will not ask. There is… a lady… whom I visit, and who I hope will visit me here. It occurs to me that it would be more seemly if there were a maid in attendance, when she comes. Also, I have work to do. I am a musician, a composer. It is inconvenient for me to lay my music aside, to sweep the floors or make up the fires. If you wish, you may stay here to be my housemaid. We will make that room more comfortable, you will have your food and clothes, and suitable wages. I will show you the boundaries of my apartment. It is best that you do not wander beyond those limits. This is a theatre, a place of illusion and trickery. There are traps, pitfalls, confusing passageways. It is a dangerous place, even for the sighted.

"But there is a condition to your staying here. You must swear to me that if you leave this building, you will never speak of me or my home to anyone. You must be silent to all questioning. And understand, I have ways of knowing if I am betrayed."

"Oh, Monsieur! I accept your condition gladly! My word of honour, your secret goes with me to the grave. To have a home, a safe place! How can I thank you?!" She moved quickly round the table until she touched his shoulder. Kneeling, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, but she felt him tense, as though barely restraining himself from snatching his hand away. She released her hold and bowed her head. "Forgive me."

He took her by the arms and raised her to her feet. "There is nothing to forgive, and no need to kneel to me. I am your employer now, and I shall expect fair work in exchange for fair wages."

O-O-O

He guided her around the kitchen, and set her to washing the breakfast dishes. Telling her that he would return later, he left her. Making sure his footsteps were audible, he crossed the living room and opened a door at the back of the room, then he let his steps fade away down the corridor beyond.

After waiting a few moments in the corridor he returned to the room, now noiselessly, and watched her through the open kitchen door. He had always been able to move without a sound when he chose, but the blind have sensitive hearing, and he took extra care not to be detected. She was rather slow at her work, but thorough, checking the crockery with her hands to make sure it was clean. When she was done, she rinsed and wiped the sink, then dried the dishes and stacked them on the table. He had not yet told her where they were kept. He wondered what she would do now, believing herself alone.

She went round the small kitchen, touching the fittings. The stove was burning low, and she hesitated there for a moment, then carefully felt around until she found the handle for the firebox, which she opened and topped up with coal. After washing her hands, she emerged into the living room. The silent watcher retreated through the open door to the corridor, where he could still see her. She began feeling her way around the room, slowly and systematically. Each piece of furniture was examined with her hands, but she did not attempt to open any drawers or cupboards. She found the open door to the corridor, but did not move it. Three times more she went round the room, touching the furniture, faster and more confidently each time. Finally she returned to the kitchen and seated herself there, hands folded in her lap, patient and still, simply waiting.

He moved away, thoughtfully. Was this a good idea? When he built this home for himself, a hidden lair where he would be safe from his enemies, he had not imagined a servant living here. And yet, long ago in distant countries, he had had many servants at his command, and he felt a brief nostalgia for that luxurious way of life.

This – what was her name? – this Madeleine appeared willing to work, and was not helpless, despite her blindness. He prized cleanliness, in himself and his surroundings. There had been other times in his past, unhappy episodes when he had had to live in dirt, and he pushed those memories away. This woman could relieve him of some tedious but necessary tasks. How would he feel, though, about sharing his home with another person? He had little experience of that in recent years. But he was anticipating a time when he would share his existence with a wife, his chosen one. Perhaps it would be good practice to have a maid around. After all, it would not matter if he frightened or offended a mere maid. And if he wearied of her, it would be easy enough to be rid of her.

O-O-O O-O-O


	3. 3: Exploration

3: Exploration

Much of the first day was taken by Monsieur teaching Madeleine her way around the apartment, although he did leave her for an hour, saying merely that he had an errand. Later, they cleared out the boxes from her room to another store-room along the passage. In the evening, Monsieur told her that they were going out. Madeleine asked no questions, but took his arm and walked with him along passages and up stairs. Monsieur unlocked a metal gate, then they waited in a room where Madeleine could smell a breath of outside air. Footsteps approached.

"Jacques, Louise, you are prompt," Monsieur greeted the newcomers. "Madeleine, Jacques works for me, running my errands, bringing in groceries, taking my linen to the laundry. You will meet him from time to time in the course of your work. I asked him to bring his wife Louise this evening, as I have a task for her. Louise, this is Madeleine, who has entered my service as a housemaid. Due to a misfortune, she has lost all her belongings. Even the dress she is wearing was borrowed from the theatre wardrobe. Madeleine, I want you to go with Louise into the next room, and let her take your measure. Louise, you are to obtain a full set of clothes for Madeleine, and anything else which she is likely to need… shoes, handkerchiefs, combs… you will know better than I. See to it."

Madeleine, remembering Monsieur's strictures on secrecy, made no attempt to talk about him. Louise said only, "The Master is a good employer, provided you do things his way." Then she discussed the job in hand, measuring, writing, consulting Madeleine on what items she would need, and how many of each. When, in passing, she asked Madeleine where she had lived and how she spent her time, Madeleine took it as casual conversation to keep the talk away from more sensitive matters. But later, when the new clothes arrived, the crate included materials for knitting and crochet, not essentials but welcome luxuries, for she enjoyed handicrafts.

That was Madeleine's first experience of Monsieur's generosity, but he would not be thanked for it, nor when a real bed was brought for her room, replacing the folding cot she had been sleeping on. His house was to be run in a proper manner, that was all, and any expressions of gratitude were brushed aside impatiently.

Madeleine found a long, light cane in the store-room, and used that to guide her steps around the apartment. She also unearthed a scrap of velvet which she could fasten over her useless eyes. Monsieur had never complained about their dead-white stare, but she knew how people reacted, and was more comfortable with them covered.

It took a little time to establish a routine. Her employer assigned tasks to her, and watched to see if she could manage. There was furniture to be dusted and polished. She liked the sound of the piano in the living room as she cleaned the keys, but the great pipe organ which occupied one wall of his bedroom was less interesting, for it made no sound when she touched it, but only when he activated the mechanical bellows in order to play it. After a while, he taught her the route to the gate which led out to the street. Once satisfied that she could find her way there and back without error, he would send her out to meet Jacques, to take out the laundry, or to receive their groceries and other supplies.

For the most part, Monsieur was a tolerant master, making allowances for her lack of sight. But in the apartment was a spare bedroom, never used but beautifully furnished. That had always to be perfect, with fires lit regularly to keep it aired. If she left a scattering of coal-dust on the hearth, or failed to spread the bedcovers accurately, he would call her back, cold with displeasure, and stand over her issuing instructions until the fault was corrected.

There was compensation, though, in the beautiful music that he made. She would listen, enraptured, when he played organ or violin or piano. There were times when he was almost genial. He might ask her what tunes she liked and play them, even singing for her in a voice of unearthly beauty. At other times, he grew intense, taciturn, with anger or frustration sounding in his music or his words. Then, she retreated to her room, leaving him to the solitude he needed.

O-O-O

Madeleine's employer was in a jovial mood as he returned home from a brief absence. His salary had been delivered on time, and after an unfortunate hiatus, his omnipotence was once again recognised. Now they knew better than to cross him.

When he had chosen to settle in the Opera House, it was to him a matter of course that he should rule it, insofar as he cared to. He made himself a figure of mystery who appeared and vanished with preternatural skill, he let his wishes be known by devious means, and he visited swift revenge on any who opposed him. When he sent little notes giving instructions to the staff, he signed them "The Opera Ghost," a soubriquet he had chosen for himself. But now as he eavesdropped on the frightened whispers of the chorus girls and stagehands, he heard them referring to him as "The Phantom of the Opera." He liked that – it had a pleasing ring to it.

Now, with a few words scrawled on paper, or by briefly showing himself and then disappearing as if by magic, he could strike fear into those who displeased him. It was rarely necessary to do more, but accidents could be made to happen if he wished, although these days they hardly ever had to be fatal. He preened himself on being a just ruler, and gave praise to those performers who deserved it, although that appeared to frighten them as much as his anger did. All very right and proper.

He paused at the door of his house. This maid, now… she was dutiful and respectful, but… where was the awe, the dread that was his due? She seemed to think he was merely an ordinary man, albeit one who lived a hermit-like existence in a strange place. Perhaps he should teach her better. Soundlessly he opened the door and stepped into the living room. Through the open kitchen door, he could see her seated at the table, mending a cushion cover. He walked towards her with more care than usual, for he knew her hearing was keen, and he made no sound at all as he entered the kitchen. Her hands explored the frayed seam which she was mending, utterly absorbed, unaware of his ghostly approach. Reaching out, he fastened his cold fingers on her wrist.

Madeleine gasped, and her hand jerked up and away from her sewing. He snatched back his own hand, not quickly enough, and the needle she held raked across his palm. He cursed, silence forgotten.

"Oh, Monsieur, I'm so sorry! I did not hear you come in. Did I hurt you with the needle?"

"Of course not," he snapped, watching blood well from the long scratch. "I just wanted… I was going to… Oh, take your sewing and go to your room. You are in my way!"

He watched as she walked quickly away through the living room. Perhaps he had spoken harshly, but the misfired prank irritated him. Girls were supposed to scream or faint or run away when he did things like that. The way her hand had lashed out – that was more than just surprise, it was a defensive reaction. Perhaps an instinct learned in childhood, to ward off cruel playmates? He knew how spiteful children could be… and her blindness might have made her a natural victim, as he had been for… other reasons.

Going to the sink, he rinsed his scratched hand until the bleeding stopped. Just his bad luck that she had been holding a needle. Well, a lesson learned. Playing the ghost to a servant was a stupid idea. Someone who cooked his food and made his bed was never going to regard him as supernatural. It was just as well that he had given up his old foible of sleeping in a coffin. Doing so had amused him at the time, but the joke had eventually worn thin. Anyone with sight would understand the significance of the coffin, but this blind girl would have been confused and frightened, unable to grasp the reasoning behind it. Perhaps she might even have doubted his sanity. No, he could not be a ghost to her. All he could be to her was a master, right now an ill-tempered master who wanted her to keep out of his sight for a while.

And yet there had been other times when he would have liked to talk, when her company might have been interesting, but she had been busy in one of the other rooms, unaware of his wishes. He had foreseen that sharing his home would be difficult. Was it time to put an end to this experiment?

But then, what of his long-term plan? If he found it hard to have a maid around, how would he deal with the greater intimacy of a wife? She could not be so casually dismissed from his presence – he checked his thoughts. Some husbands, he knew, would do exactly that. But that was not the marriage he envisaged for Christine and himself. It would be a love-match, and they would rejoice in each other's company. But… how exactly would they spend their time? His rosy visions had not filled in those details. There would be music, of course, but he and she were human beings, not angels, and they could not always be singing. There would be loving embraces… but again, not for every hour of the day. The reality of Madeleine's presence focused his mind more sharply on the practical side of his anticipated marriage.

He and his wife would converse. He would encourage Christine to tell him of her wishes and dreams, so that he could find ways to make the dreams come true. And – she was so young, she had seen so little – he could tell her of things he knew, places he had been. Not the dark things, of course. He would have to be careful about that. But selected parts of his life would make entertaining stories. Perhaps he should practise.

He established a new routine. On Saturday and Sunday evenings, he invited Madeleine to sit with him in the living room, to drink a glass of wine with him, and to talk. Mostly, though, he talked and she listened. He spoke of distant lands where he had lived, of days when he dwelt in palaces, with servants for his every whim, where clever men and dazzling women sought his company for his wit and wisdom.

For variety, at times he read to her from the newspapers, making his own comments on the ways of the world or explaining things which she did not understand. Her questions were sometimes shrewd. Although her experience was limited, she was quick to grasp his meaning, and sometimes took discussions to greater depth than he had intended. After one such evening, he reflected on how his own conversational skills had improved, talking to someone who accepted him as a normal person and not… something else. When he had started these talks, he had set out to impress her. He had been showing off, dominating the situation, for he knew no other way to interact with people. Now he was learning to listen to another person's ideas, to respect their worth and respond accordingly, to be part of a dialogue instead of delivering a monologue. All of this augured well for his marriage.

Yes, a worthwhile exercise. He would let it continue.

O-O-O

Madeleine enjoyed and looked forward to these conversations with her employer. Sometimes she wondered if Monsieur was lonely. She knew about loneliness. One day, he found her quietly weeping as she stacked dishes in the kitchen.

"What is wrong, Madeleine? Are you ill?"

She hastily wiped her eyes. "No – oh, no, Monsieur. It's just… I was thinking about my mother. I miss her so. Sometimes, the pain is sharp."

He sat at the other side of the table. "You and she were close?"

"We were everything to each other, for we had no one else. Sometimes she spoke as though it was her fault that I had a bad start in life – blind, no father, no family. I understood, I never blamed her. But she did all she could to make life good for me. In summer she would take me on picnics, boat trips, sometimes horse riding. In winter there were concerts. Even the opera occasionally. She would take a box, just for the two of us. Then she could whisper to me what was happening on stage, without disturbing others."

"All very pleasant, but rather extravagant. It might have been better if she had saved her money, set up some kind of trust fund for you – "

"Don't speak ill of her!" Madeleine snapped. Almost immediately, she understood her own flash of anger. He had only voiced the treacherous thought which sometimes crept into her own mind when she recalled that terrible day on the streets, the day she had been evicted from her home. "I… I am sorry, Monsieur. Perhaps you are right. And yet she was barely forty when she died. We thought we would have many more years together." Madeleine wiped fresh tears from her eyes. "She was the only one who ever loved me. It may seem strange to you – you with your beautiful music, your worldly wisdom, all your travels. You must find it strange to imagine only having one person to love you. But so it was with me."

"Strange… yes…" Was that bitterness in his voice? No, the bitterness was hers; he seemed calm. "Strange to have one person to love you." He rose to his feet. "I cannot heal your grief. Only time will do that. Do not check your tears on my account, Madeleine. Weep if it helps. Trust in time." With that, he left her.

O-O-O

Monsieur often left the apartment for several hours, occasionally even for a few days. When she had learned the pattern of his movements, she took advantage of his absences to explore the passageways nearby. He had warned her that this was dangerous, but had not absolutely forbidden her. Now she concealed her wanderings from him, not wanting to earn that prohibition – or, worse, be sent away altogether. Oddly, she was safer in the dark cellars than a sighted person relying on uncertain lamplight. She had a lifetime's experience of using touch to check the ground beneath her feet and the walls surrounding her. In this place, her blind eyes had a use, for they were sensitive to air currents. She found the airshafts that yawned into the corridors, the stairs and ladders up or down. She found, right by the house, the silent lake with its little quay. Sometimes a boat was moored there, when he disappeared for some days. But usually the boat was missing, and then she knew that a few hours would see his return.

One day she set out along the route by which he had first brought her to his house. Her memory and sense of direction were excellent, but part-way along, she found the passage blocked. It made no sense to have a corridor ending nowhere, and her hands explored the brick barrier, trying to recall the catch in the grating through which she had first fallen into Monsieur's domain. After a while, she found a section of brick which moved under her hand, but still the way was closed. Persisting, she found two more hidden springs, but even then, they had to be released in the right order. Finally, the brick door swung open, and she enjoyed her small triumph. The door must have been open when he first brought her here, for she could not remember him stopping to unlock it. Carefully holding it open, she felt for the catches on the other side, and satisfied herself that she could close and open it from either side. Then, having spent enough time away, she went back to the apartment, but promised herself further exploration in the future.

Madeleine had her own image of Monsieur. The touch of his hands was familiar, from when he guided her or demonstrated some task. From his voice, she knew that he was past first youth but not yet old. Brushing his suits and sorting his linen for the laundry told her that he was rather tall, slender, beautifully dressed, fastidious in his personal grooming. But one day, a discovery added to her knowledge, and yet puzzled her. She was cleaning his bedroom, while he played the piano in the living room. On this occasion, she brought in his water bottle and glass, newly cleaned and filled. As she put them on the bedside table, her hand touched something else, on the surface which was usually free from obstruction. Curious, she passed her hands very gently over the objects, careful not to disturb them. Something soft, something hard… Fixing the position in her mind, she lifted the soft object. Hair, mesh… a wig. A full-head wig, smooth and perfect. Was he bald, then? Some men were very self-conscious about baldness. Replacing it, she tried the hard object. Its angles and curves baffled her at first, then as she turned it, she understood. A mask! As a child, she had played with carnival masks, embellished with beads and feathers. This had no decoration. It was smooth, polished, shapely. Briefly, she held it against her own face. It did not quite fit, sculpted to a face shaped differently from her own, seemingly not for adornment but concealment. Then what did it conceal? She touched the velvet band which hid her blank eyes, and wondered. Then carefully she replaced mask and wig exactly as she had found them, took her tray and returned to her other tasks in the kitchen.

O-O-O O-O-O


	4. 4: Discoveries

4: Discoveries

Some evenings when Monsieur was away, Madeleine would sit at the piano, trying to work out scales. By touch, she had memorised the pattern of the large and small keys. Picking a large key at random, she would play up a scale until a note sounded wrong, then try the adjacent small keys until she decided it was right, and try to play the whole scale through. Sitting absorbed one evening, she was startled to hear a soft chuckle behind her. Usually she heard Monsieur come in.

"Someone has taught you do-re-mi at some time," he remarked. "And you have an ear. But they did not teach you on piano."

"No… I had never even touched one, until you showed me how to dust this one, and told me that pressing the keys would do no harm." She smiled shyly. "Not to the piano, at any rate. I don't know what it does to your patience!"

"So what have you discovered, left to your own devices?"

"Well… this is the easiest one." She found her way to a particular key, and played straight up the white keys. "None of those tricky small keys."

"C major. But your fingering is awry. How to show you…? You must put your hands on my hand, and try to feel what my fingers do." He played the scale slowly and repeatedly, until she worked out the movements, then he let her try it again. After two or three tries, she could play the scale evenly and consistently.

"Too easy," he went on. "I will show you G major. Just one black key. The large keys are white, the small half-tone keys are black… if those words mean anything to you."

She shrugged. "I know the names of colours. The sky is blue, grass is green. So now I know that the keys are white and black."

"Very well. You have to learn how to reach for the black keys. The angle of your hands and wrists is important." That took more work, but eventually she played the scale correctly, three times in a row, and smiled.

"Do not become complacent," he advised. "You have played two simple scales, a handful of times. If you want to go on with this, practise just those scales, until you have played each at least a hundred times – when I am not here, if you please! If you achieve that, tell me and I will teach you a little more. If you find the work uncongenial, let it be. Not everyone is made to be a musician."

It soon became clear that she had no exceptional talent for music, but she enjoyed the sound of the piano, and practised diligently enough. Monsieur began telling her when he was going to be away, so that she would know the piano was available. She made use of the time for practice, but it also helped her exploring when she knew that he would not be back for a while. Monsieur taught her scales and exercises, then a few simple tunes, when the fancy took him, and Madeleine valued this time with him. Sometimes he was in no mood for this toy music, and she learned to keep out of his way at such times. She had no resentment if he was short with her, or sent her to her room. His real music seemed to her to be sublime, awe-inspiring, and she was the more astonished that he ever found time to spend with her. After a while, he taught her a new tune. It had a lilting elegance which delighted her, and yet it was surprisingly easy to play. When she had mastered it, she asked him what it was called.

"Whatever you like," he replied. "I wrote it for you, so you may name it as you will."

"For me! You wrote it for me!" she gasped. "Oh, Monsieur…" As she had done once before, she knelt at his feet, seized his hand and kissed it, but this time he snatched it away.

"Enough! You make too much of a trifle! Go to your room, until you have calmed yourself."

Alone, Madeleine wept quietly. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have forgotten what he had clearly never forgotten? – that she was a woman defiled, impure. He might touch her in the way of business, to guide or instruct her, but for her to touch him with affection… of course he had recoiled. Any decent man would recoil from her. No Cinderella story for Madeleine. This prince would never love the kitchen maid, however much the kitchen maid might want him to. This was going to be Charles, all over again… she thought she had outgrown that weakness.

She had been… what, fifteen, sixteen? At the time, Madeleine and Odette lived in an apartment building which was shabby, while still just qualifying as respectable. They might have afforded something a little better, with Odette's wages and the allowance from her family, but Odette preferred to spend her money on Madeleine, hiring teachers for her, buying a few Braille books, taking her on outings to give variety to her restricted life.

Like them, most of the other tenants had problems, and tended to keep to themselves. One family, though, were friendly, and showed consideration to Madeleine when they could. Charles, a little older than Madeleine, was the eldest son. To Madeleine he was special, always speaking kindly to her in his beautiful voice. Dutifully aware of her mother's teaching, she would not have let herself be alone with him, but he never asked that of her. When he was sent with his younger brothers and sisters to the park, he often took Madeleine along, sitting and talking with her while the children romped. Charles wrote stories, but hid the fact from his parents. He liked reading his work to Madeleine, and enjoyed her appreciation. She loved the thrill of sharing the secret with him. If she was honest with herself, she knew even then that his writing was not particularly good, but of course she could never tell him that, never do anything to displease him. So sometimes she encouraged him just to talk about himself, to tell her all the things that mattered to him.

Her foolish infatuation had received its just reward. What mattered to him was a girl he had met and fallen in love with. Madeleine had to listen to his raptures over his love's beauty and accomplishments, to his plans of becoming a famous writer so that he could win her admiration and acceptance. Madeleine, of course, smiled and agreed with it all, saving her tears for her pillow each night. Gradually, not to be too obvious, she faded out of his life, postponed hearing his latest stories, was busy when he asked her to go out. It suited Charles, who was engrossed in the pursuit of his lady-love.

Charles and his family had eventually moved away. When, some years later, Madeleine's life was shattered by her mother's death, she had no real friends to turn to. A couple of old ladies in the next apartment helped her to organise the funeral, taking a perhaps macabre interest in another's death as their own loomed closer. But the next day, when the landlord came to evict her, no one answered her cries for help as she was dragged downstairs. Perhaps no one dared to oppose the landlord, lest they be next to be thrown out. However that might be, Madeleine's keys were snatched from her, and she was thrust into the street, with a warning that if she created a disturbance the police would be called. She had tried to make her way to the church, in the hope that the priest might help her, but then rough hands seized her –

Madeleine firmly suppressed her thoughts of that day. She had learned to bury unhappy memories, and that one must be buried even deeper than her fruitless first love. Charles had unwittingly taught her two sharp lessons; that love was not for her, and that pain must be left behind, and not allowed to poison her life.

Monsieur, though, was not Charles, and at least she had known from the start that Monsieur had a lady who was important to him. Madeleine's love might grow unasked, but she could forbid hope, for there was none. Just to be near him, to work for him, to share his home – that was enough. But if she was not to lose him altogether… if she was even to remain his maid… she must put right her error. Having come so near to letting her true feelings show, she must step back from that brink. Sternly bidding her heart to silence, she put her mind to work.

Next morning, she was in the kitchen when she heard him enter the living room. Going out to him immediately, she curtseyed formally. "Monsieur – may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Well?" His voice was neutral, giving nothing away.

"I wish to apologise for my behaviour last night. I embarrassed both of us by making so much fuss over your gift to me. You gave me that sweet little tune, as some other man might give a lollipop to a child, and I do thank you for it. But it was the surprise… an unexpected kindness can sometimes pierce the heart. I shall try to behave better in future."

"An unexpected kindness…" His voice was soft now, and he paused for a moment. "Yes, you are right, such a thing may strike like a lightning bolt. I remember…" His voice altered, and Madeleine thought that he had changed his mind about what he was going to say. "You do not know _Les Miserables_ , do you? No one has read it to you? That would be a mammoth undertaking. In that story, a man commits a theft, and is caught. But his victim lies to the police, saying that the stolen goods were really a gift, so that the man goes free. An unexpected kindness which changes the man's life. Very well, we shall put last night's incident behind us. But be sure to practise your tune, to do it justice."

O-O-O

Soon after, Monsieur went away on one of his longer absences. Madeleine, still feeling unsettled, went exploring again, this time beyond the locked door in the passageway, back through the route where he had first brought her. She had avoided this way for some time, not wanting to remember the events which had driven her to the Opera House, but now she felt that it was time to face the memories and to retrace those steps. Her hand, trailing along the wall, found a small unevenness which she suspected was the hidden door into the cellar where Monsieur had first found her. But she did not want to go that way. That room opened to the street, if one could bypass the grating, and she wished neither to leave nor to be seen by outsiders. What had brought Monsieur here that night? Was this still part of his realm? Giving her attention to the other side of the passage, she searched more carefully for cracks and gaps, and at length her questing fingers detected another of Monsieur's concealed doors. The catches were similar to those on the passageway door, and soon this new entrance was released.

Madeleine stood listening for some time before she opened the door, but there was no sound, no movement of air to suggest that any other person was near. Eventually she opened the door a little and slipped through. It was a room, well-enough ventilated, but with no opening to the street. Cautiously, she felt her way around. This place was furnished, sparsely. Two narrow beds stood against the walls, with stripped mattresses and neatly-folded blankets. An iron stove was cold, but laid with kindling, and a scuttle of coal was to hand. In an alcove were a sink, some utensils, and crocks and cans which she expected held preserved food. A plain wooden door opened on a compact lavatory. A cupboard held clothes; one of Monsieur's elegant suits, other garments such as might be worn by clerks or workmen. She also found some women's clothing, including two dresses. One was a beautiful velvet gown, the other a simple woollen garment of a type worn by working women. Everything felt a little damp and chilly, but the stove could banish that in a few hours.

A sanctuary, then. A place where Monsieur – and another – could come to hide if danger threatened, and change their appearance if needful. The "other" was not herself, she was sure, but someone who mattered more. The lady he had spoken of? She added all this to her knowledge of the man who lived hidden, who wore a mask, who would not talk about himself. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that he was some kind of criminal. And yet he had given Madeleine a home, saved her from a life on the streets. For that, he deserved her loyalty. Leaving everything as she had found it, she re-locked the door carefully, and made her way home.

O-O-O

It was, for Madeleine, a normal working day. As she finished cleaning the bathroom and turned off the taps, she could hear sounds from the living room which the noise of the water had concealed. Monsieur was at the piano, playing and singing; there was nothing unusual in that. But now, as he paused at the end of a line, a soprano voice took up the melody and sang the answering phrase. Startled, Madeleine stopped in the passageway. The two voices continued to alternate to the end of the song.

Madeleine had work to do in the kitchen, but to get there she had to go through the living room. She opened the door, but hesitated to enter.

"Well?" Monsieur demanded sharply. "What is it? What are you waiting for?"

"Monsieur, you have company… I feared to disturb you."

"Company? Oh…" He gave a short bark of laughter. "It must have sounded like that to you. For your information, naïve girl, the only voice you heard just now was mine. It is somewhat more versatile than that of most people. So if I wish to sound out a dialogue, I need no help."

"That was you? But it sounded like a woman, a woman as good as any I have heard singing in the Opera. I have heard some men who sing… what do they call it… falsetto? But your voice did not sound like that."

"Falsetto? No, that would be more like this…" He sang a few phrases of a different song.

"Yes, I have heard men sing like that, sometimes to demonstrate virtuosity, sometimes as a joke. It does not sound quite like a woman."

"No, it does not. The difference between male falsetto and soprano has as much to do with the overall sound as with the notes. You have not yet heard my full scope, as I usually work in the middle male ranges. If you would like to hear…"

She heard him stand, and draw two deep breaths as though collecting himself. Then he sang a series of scales, ascending from a deep bass note, ranging through baritone to tenor. She clearly heard where he altered his voice to sound like a woman, not like a man singing artificially high, and he soared up to soprano heights, ending on a long, pure note before sitting down again. "There. I need not ask if you have ever heard anything like that from one mouth, because I know that you have not."

"No. No indeed. It is hard to understand…" Madeleine pressed her fingers to her own throat and sang a few ascending notes.

When she had first started learning piano, Monsieur had made her sing for him. Her voice, he said, was not unpleasant, but very limited. It could be improved a little with coaching, but the gain which might be made would not be worth the effort required, and he advised her to continue with her piano practice if she wished to make music. Now, more keenly aware of her own limitations after hearing his demonstration, she wondered what gave him that superhuman ability to sing in so many voices.

"No, I cannot understand how you do that, Monsieur."

"It is simply that my vocal apparatus is more flexible than that of others."

"Simply! It does not sound simple to me." She pressed her fingers to her throat again and hummed a note, then said, "Monsieur, may I touch your throat while you sing?"

He was silent for so long that she feared she had offended him. She was so used to touching his hands or taking his arm for guidance that it had not occurred to her that now she was asking for a much more intimate contact, one which he might find intrusive. She decided to apologise for disturbing him, and to continue on her way to the kitchen. But before she could speak, he grasped her wrist and pulled her closer to him. "Put your hand here… like this."

He had stood up again, and she had to reach up to his throat, where he placed her hand, covering it firmly with his own. His skin there was cool, like his hands, and there seemed little flesh beneath it, the cords of his neck standing out strongly. Holding her hand in place, he again sang through scales from bass to soprano, then back down to bass. Astonished, Madeleine felt his throat change shape, expanding and contracting like a small animal breathing and stretching under her hand. Her own voice-box felt rigid, apart from rising and falling when she swallowed, but his had a life of its own. And yet the movements were subtle. She doubted if a sighted person would be aware of them, unless standing very close to him, but her keen sense of touch conveyed all the strangeness to her.

Abruptly he pulled her hand away, released it and stepped back. "There. Now you know the source of my many voices."

"Thank you for showing me, Monsieur. It is amazing. You have a great gift."

"A gift, do you call it? Perhaps it seems so to you. But being different from other people is more often a burden than a gift."

His tone had been sharp, and she paused before answering. "I am sorry, Monsieur. I should not speak of things which I do not understand. It was kind of you to demonstrate your voice to me, but I have distracted you from your music for long enough. If you will excuse me, I have work to do in the kitchen." She curtseyed and left the living room. But she felt that she had pushed herself too far into his confidence. She must be careful of that, and remember her place.

O-O-O

When she had gone, he sat at the piano again, but did not immediately resume the song. He was angry with himself. That little farce had been stupid and unnecessary, the result of an urge to show off. He seldom had a chance to demonstrate his vocal talents, and the opportunity had pleased him, even if his audience was merely an unmusical housemaid. But he had never imagined that she would be so bold as to want to touch his throat. Perhaps it was ignorance rather than boldness. Perhaps it had never occurred to her that a hand on a throat could give the power of life and death. It had certainly never occurred to him that someone might seek to touch him in such a way without wanting to do him harm.

He should have foreseen the request, from someone who learned about the world through her hands, but he had been too busy enjoying her amazement to think of the consequences. Not that he minded her knowing the secrets of his larynx, but to let someone else grip his vulnerable throat? Let her hand so near his face? Yet to deny her might have piqued her curiosity, might have set her wondering what other secrets he concealed. It had been better to answer the question and dismiss the subject, so long as he controlled the encounter and restrained her hand.

But he realised that he was becoming too informal with the girl, and that was a mistake. Let her keep to her place in future, and he would keep to his. Her presence was supposed to make the house more comfortable for Christine. Very soon now, that would be put to the test. And he would have a more suitable companion to talk to.

O-O-O O-O-O


	5. 5: A Visitor

5: A Visitor

One evening, Monsieur returned earlier than usual, and Madeleine heard voices, his and another, approaching the door. Was she being deceived, as before, by his extraordinary vocal abilities? No, not this time, for one voice rose over the other; there must be two people at the threshold. His lady had come at last! Going quickly to the kitchen, she set two glasses and a decanter of wine on a silver tray. His voice called her from the living room, and she went in, the tray cradled on one arm, her guiding cane held in the other hand. She paused in the doorway, wondering where they were standing.

"Thank you, Madeleine," Monsieur said. "On the small table, please." As she crossed the room and put down the tray, she heard a soft exclamation from the woman. Madeleine curtseyed towards them. "Monsieur… Madame… can I get you anything else?"

"Your eyes," the woman began. "How can you manage with them covered?" Her voice was gentle, expressive.

Madeleine touched the black band across her face. "My eyes have always been blind, Madame. This is so that other people need not be troubled by the sight of them. Monsieur is considerate, and does not move things about. It is not so difficult for me to do my work."

"You see, Christine, this is a place of surprises," said Monsieur. "Madeleine, this is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. She has come for a singing lesson. You may return to the kitchen, or to your room. We shall call you if we need anything."

On the way to her bedroom, Madeleine suddenly recalled her tasks, and turned aside to the bathroom. Since she first arrived in his house, Monsieur had left this bathroom for her exclusive use, while he used the one attached to the guest room. That had to change, with a guest in the house; now Madeleine would have to share the main bathroom with him. Quickly she felt around to check that she had not left any personal items there. Then in the guest apartment, she built up the fire and made sure bedroom and bathroom were ready for use. Perhaps the lady would not stay, but if she did, all was prepared for her.

While she worked, Madeleine had heard soft conversation in the living room, but did not attempt to eavesdrop. By the time her duties were done, Monsieur had gone to the piano, and he and Christine sang together. Madeleine sat in her room, her door slightly open, listening to the soaring music. Christine had a superb voice, and indeed, Monsieur's music deserved nothing less. Madeleine felt as though she were flying on the magic of their voices, which blended and twined in ways she had never imagined. They sang duets, then Monsieur sang alone. His voice was more wonderfully expressive than she had ever heard before, captivating her mind with its eerie beauty. Madeleine felt a strange somnolence creep over her, and rose to pace back and forth, to shake herself awake. After a while, his voice grew quieter, and the music ceased. There was silence for several minutes, then a soft tap at her door.

"Madeleine? Are you still up?" He spoke quietly.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Mademoiselle was weary, and she has fallen asleep. I carried her to the chaise longue in her room. I want you to go into the room and sit quietly with her. If she wakes, assist her to go to bed properly, to get her rest. You may assure her that I shall not… shall not approach her in any disrespectful manner. If she has not stirred after an hour, then I think she will sleep the night through. In that case, you may cover her and leave her where she is."

Madeleine obeyed, sitting in a chair in the guest room. She could feel that the fire was burning down, but to build it up would make noise, and the room was warm, so she left it. After a while, she heard Christine move, and guessed that she was sitting up. Christine whispered some broken, confused words, seemingly unsure of where she was.

"It is all right, Mademoiselle," Madeleine reassured her. "You are in the home of your teacher. This room is for your use, but Monsieur sent me to you in case you needed attendance." Going to a cupboard, she brought out a silk nightdress and velvet dressing gown, and spread them on the bed. They were familiar to her, as she had regularly taken them out to air them, but so far as she knew they had never been used. She then opened the bathroom door and held her hand near the light fitting, feeling by the warmth that the gas was still alight as she had left it earlier. "There are towels and soap here, brushes and combs on the dressing table. With your permission, I shall wait here until you retire, in case you need anything else."

"Perhaps… some help with my buttons? This is a stage costume. Usually, a dresser helps me. If you give me your hand…"

Christine guided Madeleine's hand to the buttons on the back of the costume. Madeleine deftly felt her way along the fastenings and undid them, then stood back while Christine finished undressing and went into the bathroom. When she was ready for bed, Madeleine left her with a light on but turned low, as she had asked. Monsieur approached Madeleine in the corridor, took her hand and drew her into the living room.

"Does Mademoiselle Daaé have all that she needs? Has she gone to bed?"

"Yes, Monsieur. She seems content. But… I think she came with no baggage, no change of clothes? I found none when I tidied her room earlier. If she is to stay here long, she will need other things to make her comfortable. I would gladly share what I have, but my clothes would hardly be suitable."

"I know. In the morning I shall summon Louise to come shopping with me, and get her the necessities. You are to give Mademoiselle breakfast, and reassure her that she will be taken care of."

O-O-O

Madeleine did her best to make Christine comfortable in the morning, but she could tell that the other woman was ill at ease. "Did your master say when he would return?" Christine asked.

"No, but I do not think he will be gone long."

"Did he take the boat? He used it to bring me here yesterday."

"I do not know. Sometimes he takes it when he goes out, sometimes not. This building is huge, and there are many passages."

Christine went to the front door, which led from the living room to the quay where the boat had been moored the previous day, but was unable to open it. She rattled it in frustration, then returned to the table where Madeleine had served her breakfast.

"It is locked. Does he always lock it?"

"Why… I don't know. Not always, for I go out that way to fetch the provisions from the servant who buys them, or I open it to polish the outside. But I do not check it every day." It was also Madeleine's usual route when she went exploring, but she said nothing of that. After she had discovered the secrets of the hidden doors, she had become more alert to them, and had found a back entrance to the house from the rear corridor into the cellars beyond. But when she opened that door, she had heard a bell ring in Monsieur's room. Thankful that he was not there to hear it, she had closed the door carefully and refrained from using it thereafter.

"So it is me he wishes to keep captive, not you," Christine muttered unhappily.

"Perhaps not captive," Madeleine replied soothingly. "He may just be concerned for your safety. When I first came here he warned me not to wander, as this is a dangerous place, and he has taught me the ways which I need to know. He may have feared that you, having sight, would wish to look about you, and might come to harm without his guidance."

"I wish… I wish I knew if I did right to come here."

"Have you known Monsieur for long?"

"Yes… no… it is hard to explain."

Christine had finished her breakfast but remained at the table. After clearing away the dishes, Madeleine returned and stood opposite her. There was a long moment of silence, then Christine spoke hastily. "Oh, I'm sorry. I waved you to a chair, but of course you cannot see a gesture. Madeleine, please sit down and talk to me. You manage so well, I sometimes forget that you are blind. I suppose other people make that mistake, too."

Madeleine seated herself. "Some have, in the past. Not Monsieur, though. He never forgets my blindness."

"You seem so capable. They say that when someone is blind, the other senses are made sharper in compensation."

"I am not sure that that is true. I believe it is just that I must pay close heed to such senses as I have, while other people rely almost entirely on their eyes." Madeleine, still curious about how Christine had come to know Monsieur, returned to her previous question. "Mademoiselle, you sing so beautifully. Did Monsieur teach you that? Surely that must have taken some time."

"I… at first, I never saw him. He was a Voice, an unearthly, ethereal Voice which seemed to come from the walls of my room, or out of nowhere. That was months ago. The Voice taught me. I suppose I was naïve. I thought that the Voice must be supernatural, a benevolent spirit. My father used to say… before he died… he said to me, 'When I am in Heaven I shall send the Angel of Music to you.' I loved my father so much, I wanted to believe him. And the Voice… what else could I think but that he was indeed the promised Angel? Who else could make such perfect music?

"Last night, after I had sung on stage, I sought the Voice in my dressing room. I heard his music, and followed it, enchanted. Then somehow I was no longer in my room, but in a dim passageway, and a man's hand – a cold hand – took hold of my hand. I was afraid, but he spoke to me, soft words in the beautiful Voice I had learned to know so well, to trust and believe in. Thus I learned that the Voice was a man, after all. I was confused. As the Voice, I had… I had loved the music he gave me, was indebted to him for how he had made me sing. But now that I knew he was a living man, how should I feel? As I was trying to understand, he brought me on this strange journey, a fearful journey under the Opera House, to this underworld. I was fascinated… and yet terrified. His music makes everything wonderful… but when the music stops, I am appalled by the mystery, and by finding myself in this place. Does it not frighten you? Does… he… not frighten you?"

"Oh, no! The world outside frightens me. This is my home, my safety. Monsieur is a good master." And yet it seemed that Christine found reason to fear him. Why? And if Monsieur wanted to teach her, why had he gone about it in such a strange way?

"You do not find him… abrupt, changeable? He treats you well?" Christine asked doubtfully.

"Very well. Sometimes, perhaps, he has spoken sharply to me, if I have failed to do my work properly. That is just, and I have no complaints. I am happy here. There are much worse places." Madeleine recalled other sharp words or brusque dismissals when she had committed no fault but to be in the same room as Monsieur when he wished to be alone, but out of loyalty to her master, she did not mention those times. Nor did she speak of his kindness in teaching her piano, or simply talking with her. Those were cherished secrets, not to be shared. "Monsieur has gone out for things you will need for your comfort, while you remain his guest. I believe he wishes only for your well-being."

Christine was somewhat reassured, and spoke of inconsequential things while Madeleine continued with her normal duties. A few hours later, Monsieur returned with various packages. He handed some of these to Madeleine to take to Christine's room, while he carried others to the kitchen. On his instructions, Madeleine set the dining table for two and served them a light lunch, while she ate in the kitchen as always. For the rest of the afternoon, Monsieur and Christine were absorbed in conversation together, while Madeleine flitted about her work, an unregarded shadow. It should not have hurt so much, she told herself. He had often ignored her before, preferring his music or his books or his own thoughts. But to be ignored for another woman… oh, that _did_ hurt, even though she had expected it.

To make her pain worse, as the two of them forgot her presence, she heard Christine address Monsieur as "Erik." Madeleine had not known her employer's name. How well did Christine know him, then, to use his first name? He had called her "Christine," of course, and Madeleine had wondered if he had known her from her childhood, for their voices told her that he was the elder by some years. Or perhaps it was the condescension of a teacher speaking to a pupil. In the same way, master to servant, he had always addressed her, as well as Jacques and Louise, by their Christian names, but surely it was not appropriate for pupil or servant to speak so to a master.

In the evening, Monsieur and Christine had a more elaborate dinner than was usual for him, and he attended to much of its preparation. Madeleine had already discovered that he was a competent cook when the whim took him, but for most of the time he took little interest in food, and was content with the simple meals which were easiest for her to prepare.

Later, the glorious music started again, sublime voices and his wonderful piano accompaniment. Sometimes, when Monsieur demonstrated to Christine how a piece should be sung, he altered his voice to sing in her soprano register. Madeleine was enthralled by this further demonstration of his miraculous ability. She sat in her room with the door ajar to listen, losing herself in the spell.

Dear God! – that scream! A woman's scream, and then – "Damn you!" – a man's bellow of rage. Christine and Monsieur – but what had happened? There was a clatter – the piano bench tipping over? – and he shouted again, a hot anger that Madeleine had never heard aimed at herself. Then his voice subsided to a snakelike hiss. She could not make out the words, but the anger was still there, and sobbing protests from Christine. Madeleine stood irresolute in her doorway. Should she go to them? But what could she do? After a pause when the voices were too low for her to hear, she heard his footsteps, unnaturally clumsy, make their way to his room, while Christine continued to weep in the living room.

Madeleine puzzled over what she had heard. Why had Christine screamed? Could Monsieur have attacked her? Surely not, for he was busy at the keyboard. Madeleine had heard him playing, right up until the moment when it happened. And then, his outcry was full of shock as well as anger. Something had happened which staggered both of them. Almost as if a ghost had suddenly appeared to them, but Madeleine did not believe in ghosts. Monsieur had sounded insanely furious, and Christine horrified. But now he had left her alone, so at least Madeleine had no immediate fear that there would be violence.

Then from Monsieur's bedroom came the thunderous notes of the great pipe organ, the strange music which Madeleine had only heard when he was in his blackest moods. It continued for some time, then stopped abruptly. Madeleine heard their voices as they talked. It sounded as though Christine was standing at the door to Monsieur's room, while his voice answered from inside. Now Madeleine hoped to hear what passed between them, but they spoke too softly, and she could catch only disjointed words. Still, they seemed to reach some kind of understanding, with no more rage or weeping. Christine departed to her own room. Later, Madeleine tapped timidly on Christine's door and asked if she needed anything, but Christine replied in a curiously toneless voice that there was nothing Madeleine could do for her. Uneasily, Madeleine returned to her own room, but there was little sleep for her that night.

O-O-O O-O-O


	6. 6: Christine Captive

6: Christine Captive

Next morning, Monsieur was nowhere to be found. Madeleine served breakfast, but Christine barely spoke, and when Madeleine cleared the table she realised that Christine had eaten almost nothing. As she had done the previous day, Christine asked Madeleine to sit with her, but was slow to start a conversation. Eventually she asked, "Madeleine… how much do you know about your employer?"

Madeleine considered this. "Not much, to be honest, Mademoiselle. But he is a good master, and that is what matters most to me. He gave me work and a home, at a time when I was desperately in need of both." She paused. What did Christine want to know? "I have heard that some men… have no respect for women servants. Monsieur has never given me cause for anxiety on that account. I am paid to clean his house, and he asks no more of me than that."

"But you… of course, you cannot see his face. Can it be that you do not know…?"

"No, I cannot see. But, Mademoiselle, I do know that Monsieur sometimes wears a mask. I thought that perhaps… he has something to hide?"

"Something to hide," whispered Christine. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed."

Madeleine recalled her earlier thought, when she first found the mask. Was Monsieur a criminal? She had heard that when an important criminal was sought by the police, his picture was printed in the newspapers and posted in public places, so that people would recognise him. She understood the concept of pictures. As a sculpture was a likeness which her fingers could read, so a picture was a likeness that eyes could see. Was Monsieur a wanted man? Had Christine unmasked his secret, to frighten her so and to wake fury in him? Better not to ask for details.

"Mademoiselle, whatever Monsieur wishes to keep hidden, it is surely best that we do not talk of it. Let his secrets be his alone."

"His secrets," replied Christine bitterly. "Oh, his secrets were safe enough with you. You could not betray him. But now he fears that I will. He said… dear God, he said that now I knew, he could never let me go."

Madeleine considered that. "Mademoiselle, I heard – I could hardly help hearing! – some part of what passed between you last night. Angry words were spoken in the heat of the moment. But anger can cool, and intentions can change. When Monsieur returns, I beg you, speak calmly to him. You told me yesterday of your gratitude to him, of your love for the music he has given you. Speak to him of those things, and not of the secret that you discovered. Show him loyalty, show him admiration, and perhaps he will learn to trust you."

 _And may I be forgiven_ , Madeleine thought to herself, _if he trusts you and then you betray him. But what else could I have said?_

O-O-O

Hours later, Erik brought the boat back to the stone quay outside his house door. His long-held scheme had gone terribly wrong because of Christine's damnable prying. Up in the Opera House, he had eavesdropped on conversations about her disappearance, making sure that no one would be able to follow her to his house. Some said the Ghost had taken her, others that there was no Ghost. He could disabuse them of that belief! He had gone roaming all over his domain, terrorising hapless Opera House employees, smashing belongings of those who had at some time displeased him, leaving sinister evidence that the Ghost was on the prowl, until he had worked off the worst of his anger.

He paused for a moment at the house door. He would have to make clear to Christine exactly what she had done, and the damned maid was in the way. He had hired her with the idea of making the house more comfortable for Christine, but Christine had proved unworthy of such consideration. Perhaps it was time for the maid to be gone. He recalled the noisy scene with Christine the previous evening. Maybe the servant-girl had been frightened into running away, to be lost in the maze of cellars or drowned in the lake. That would save him the trouble of doing anything about her. No – no such luck; he had locked the house, so she was still there. With the perversity of womankind, she was probably trembling in a corner somewhere, another burden for him to deal with.

Entering the living room, he found Madeleine on her knees polishing the floor. The room was clean and tidy, smelling of polish and the flowers he had bought the previous day, with a faint waft of fresh bread from the kitchen. The gas lights and fire burned brightly, welcoming him home. On a table a decanter of wine, a jug of water and assorted glasses waited ready. His intention to be rid of the girl wavered. Perhaps, after all, it was convenient having someone to do the menial work.

"Still busy, Madeleine?" he asked sharply. "After that… disturbance… yesterday, I thought you might have grown too afraid to do your work."

"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur. I heard… that you and Mademoiselle had a quarrel, but I do not know the cause. I hope that… matters can be mended, in time."

"Who knows? She has the voice of an angel, and I could do so much with that voice. But the voice is part of a woman, with a woman's besetting sin of curiosity, a sin that can do much harm. Have you no curiosity, Madeleine? You are also a woman."

"I have curiosity, Monsieur, but also the common sense to curb it. If I grew curious about fire, and put my hand into it, I would be burned. If I grew curious about you and this strange life you lead, I would be dismissed from the safe haven which you have given me. There are questions that I will never ask, because any answer would be worse than none."

"Well and good. Continue to think so, and your haven is safe enough. But where is Mademoiselle hiding?"

"She has gone to her room, Monsieur. She spent some time on her voice exercises this morning, and she told me that, in her lessons, you had instructed her to rest afterwards."

"She has left it a little late to start obeying me. If she had listened to me yesterday…" The quiet, resentful words were spoken more to himself than to Madeleine, who gathered up her cleaning materials and softly left the room.

O-O-O

Madeleine tried to do her duties as normal, although the tension in the air was palpable. After a while Monsieur summoned Christine to the piano, and resumed his coaching of her voice. He was strict with her, while Christine was subdued and obedient. Even when they sang together, Madeleine could not sense that joy in the music which they had shared before. The singing sounded mechanical, albeit from a perfect machine. At one point Madeleine, in the kitchen getting the evening meal ready, made a slight clatter with a pot, despite her efforts to be quiet. Monsieur instantly ordered her to leave the work and go to her room, and to make no more noise. Some time later, he called her back to the living room and scolded her for letting the fire die down. Madeleine heard Christine draw a breath as if to protest at the conflicting orders, and was relieved when she thought better of it and remained silent. With Monsieur in this mood, any argument would make him worse. The only thing to do was to obey his most recent instruction, and forget about what he had said before.

Somewhat later than usual, Madeleine served the dinner. She cleared up as quickly as she could, then retreated to her room and closed the door. She had sensed the constraint at the table, and felt that Monsieur and Christine had things to say which they could not say while she was in earshot. Surely he could not seriously mean to keep Christine prisoner forever? Not only would that be inhumanly cruel, but there were obvious practical difficulties to such a course. How long would it be before her friends came searching for her? No, Christine would have to soothe and placate him, coax him out of his anger and into a more rational frame of mind. It could be done, with patience and tact. Madeleine hoped that Christine possessed those qualities. She had not shown them yesterday, when she uncovered Monsieur's secret…

O-O-O

The next day, Madeleine went up to the street entrance to collect the groceries from Jacques. When she first came to work for Monsieur, he had shown her the route a few times, until she learned it well enough to manage for herself. This day, he handed Madeleine the key to the passage gate and sent her off early, before Christine had risen. When Madeleine met Jacques at the gate, he delivered a basket with the usual supplies like coffee and eggs. But she needed a few more things with an extra person in the house. She made no mention of that; Jacques might know from Louise that a lady guest was expected, but there was no need to tell him that she had arrived, nor how long she would be staying. Madeleine merely told Jacques what else to buy, and sat quietly on a bench just inside the gate to await his return.

While waiting, she pondered the problem of Christine. If Monsieur proved adamant in his intention to imprison her, what could Madeleine do? Attempt to persuade him otherwise? Hardly. Opposition would probably make him even more determined. Then… help Christine escape? Madeleine could get out of the house if Monsieur was absent, even with the front door locked. And she knew a way from the secret back door to this corridor to the street. But the street gate… Monsieur gave her the key when needed, but she had to hand it back to him when she returned. Could she ask Jacques to take it and have a copy made, fabricating some excuse why Monsieur needed another one? She had her wages saved, so the cost was not an issue. But there would be too much chance of Jacques mentioning it to Monsieur next time they met. "Was the new key satisfactory, Monsieur?" No, that would not do.

Could she "accidentally" fail to lock the gate properly after Jacques had completed the errands and gone? Perhaps. Monsieur would reprimand her if he discovered it, but she would risk that. But… how long might she have to wait until Monsieur was away from the house, and likely to be gone for long enough to risk Christine's escape? She suspected that he would stay close to home while Christine was there. And if this gate was not secured during the long wait, other people could get in, and Monsieur would be vulnerable to whatever dangers had driven him to live in this secret place. No, Madeleine would not put Monsieur at risk in order to help Christine.

The grid from the empty cellar into the street, the way she had first entered this underworld? She knew how to get back there. But after she had unwittingly triggered the hidden catch, Monsieur had stated his intention of making the grid more secure. However it was fastened now, there was little chance that she would be able to release it.

Back to the key of this gate, then. It was a large key, and it was unlikely that Monsieur carried it about with him if he was not himself using it. Therefore it was kept somewhere in the house. Madeleine did not know where, but Christine had eyes. If she and Christine were forced to conspire for her escape, finding that key must be Christine's task. Madeleine could recognise the correct key by touch, and with that in her possession, she could guide Christine to the street and leave her free to go wherever she wished.

And then what? Would Madeleine go away with Christine? Of course not. She had no wish to leave Monsieur. But Monsieur would know that she must have helped Christine to escape, and he would punish her. He could throw her back on the streets where she had come from, but the prospect of losing him frightened her more than any horrors which might await her if she were once more alone and unprotected. Or perhaps… what _was_ the secret which he was so determined to keep? Might he fear that Madeleine would talk of him, reveal his hiding place? Might he… take steps to ensure that that could not happen? "Criminal" was a word she had thought in relation to his past, but it had never seemed to relate to herself. Just what crimes could he have committed…? And might still commit…? Perhaps Madeleine should fear for herself as well as Christine, but somehow when she thought of Monsieur, even of his changeable moods and sharp temper, she could not really believe herself at risk from him.

However, one way or another, if Monsieur suspected her of complicity in Christine's escape, she was likely to lose him, and that could not be borne. Could matters be arranged so that Christine appeared to have escaped by herself? A girl naïve enough to believe in guardian angels, irresponsible enough to rush into discovery of a secret best left alone? Such a girl to penetrate all the defences of Monsieur's lair? No, he would never believe that.

So there was no way that Madeleine could imagine of contriving the escape. She returned to her earlier thought, that Christine must seek to win back Monsieur's confidence, and persuade him to trust her. If Madeleine had no very high opinion of Christine's common sense, she would readily admit that the girl had a childlike charm and a warm heart. Perhaps that would be enough.

Madeleine welcomed the return of Jacques to interrupt her fruitless musings. Locking the gate properly behind him, she packed the heavier goods in a canvas bag which she slung over her shoulder. Picking up a basket with the lighter and more fragile items, she took her guiding cane in her other hand and made her way back through the darkness to the house by the lake.

O-O-O

Madeleine paused outside the door. Monsieur and Christine were singing a duet, with rather more warmth than she had heard from them the previous day. When the song ended, she went in, taking her bags straight through to the kitchen. She heard the other two exchange a few words. Perhaps the conversation was a little stilted because of Madeleine's presence, but clearly the atmosphere was less frosty than the previous day. Christine rose somewhat in Madeleine's estimation; apparently the girl had been putting her time alone with Monsieur to good use, and had soothed away his anger.

The day passed more like the first day of Christine's visit. Monsieur coached Christine in her singing, correcting flaws which were undetectable to Madeleine, encouraging Christine always to achieve more, to reach for an almost inhuman perfection. Then he relaxed the discipline, told her she had done well, and sent her to her room to rest for an hour. Afterwards, he asked what she would like to sing for her own amusement. They sang together just for pleasure, or he played and sang music which Christine asked for. Sometimes he played what Madeleine knew to be his own music, strange and wonderful. For Madeleine, at times the strangeness of such music overcame the wonder, and it made her shiver without knowing why. Christine seemed to understand it better. With no tremor in her voice, she spoke to Monsieur of his genius, and of her awe and joy at being permitted to share his music with him.

At night, Christine asked Madeleine to attend her to bed. When they were alone in Christine's room, she began to speak of her day, but Madeleine interrupted her with a commonplace enquiry about the state of the room. While doing so, she touched the wall, and put a hand to her ear. Madeleine had much experience of Monsieur's keen hearing, and some knowledge of the secrets built into his home. She did not explain about the hidden back door with its alarm bell, nor about the sections of panelling she had discovered while dusting, which moved a little when she touched them, but she wanted Christine to realise that he might overhear anything which was said.

Christine, it seemed, was finally learning caution. Taking the hint, she continued to talk about her singing lessons, but said nothing which might offend Monsieur. But as she was ready for bed, she pressed Madeleine's hand. "You gave me good advice," she said quietly. "You said that anger can cool. It was my folly which caused the anger, but I shall do all in my power not to fan it into new flames."

Madeleine returned the hand pressure. "That is wise, Mademoiselle. This place is a palace of music. Give your heart to the music, and all may yet be well. Now, goodnight."

The following morning was spent, again, with Christine and Monsieur at the piano, while Madeleine went about her household duties. In the afternoon, he stated his intention of going out for an hour or two, and instructed Christine to rest. When he had gone, Christine went first to Madeleine and asked if she might borrow a needle and thread, to secure a loose button. They went to Madeleine's room to get her sewing things, and Christine asked quietly, "Do you really think we may be overheard?"

"Unlikely, but possible, Mademoiselle. It is hard to know exactly where Monsieur is, except, I suppose, when I can hear him playing the piano or the organ. I… I used to have a habit of talking to myself, when alone. A sort of company, I suppose. Monsieur once startled me by answering me, when I knew he was not in the kitchen with me. He sounded amused by the incident, and perhaps a little proud of his unexpected ability. You yourself told me that he spoke to you out of the walls of your dressing room. If you have any thoughts which you would not wish him to hear, best not to speak them aloud."

"Wise… but rather lonely. You know how I am placed. It would be a comfort to me to talk to you sometimes."

"Mademoiselle… I play piano, a little, and I have been neglecting my practice lately. Monsieur permits me to use the piano when he is out. If you bring your bodice with the loose button to the living room, perhaps you would care to sit by me and sew while I play."

Christine agreed, and a few minutes later, both were seated on the piano bench. Madeleine played repetitive scales, right hand and left hand in various keys, exercises which demanded no thought, but which would drown out the soft conversation if by any chance there was a hidden listener.

"Madeleine, I need to know how you regard my situation. You have told me that Monsieur Erik is a good master to you, and I think you would not want to displease him."

"You are correct, Mademoiselle. I value my place here, and I am loyal to my master. All the same, I think it is wrong of him to keep you prisoner here, and yet I do not want to go against his wishes. I… I do not know the answer. I would help you to freedom if I could, but not at the price of betraying his secrets. Nor at the price of losing my safe home here. That must sound selfish, but you do not know… do not know what I was fleeing from, when he gave me shelter."

"I think I understand," Christine replied sadly. "You are afraid to leave, or to be sent away, just as I am afraid to stay."

"But you came here willingly, I think? And sometimes, when you and Monsieur make music together… you are happy then?"

"Yes, oh yes, the music is magnificent. When he sings, when he speaks of all the wonderful things he can teach me, then I am enchanted. But when the music ends… it is different. Then I am afraid. Madeleine, he… he says that he loves me. He wants me to love him. He says I must love him. But love cannot be commanded."

Madeleine knew that all too well. Carefully she schooled her features to blankness, not to reveal her pain. If he wanted love, why could he not have turned to her? But Christine was his true match musically. Besides, Madeleine suspected enviously that she was beautiful, and an unstained maiden, all the things that Madeleine was not. No, Monsieur would never think of Madeleine when Christine was near. If only Christine were not near… But even if she were gone, would that make Monsieur happy, or more likely to notice Madeleine? No, it would only make him wretched. Could nothing make him happy but Christine's love?

Christine was waiting for an answer, and Madeleine tried to keep her voice calm. "Then you do not love him? He has hardly earned love, taking you captive. But he may learn the error of his ways, may return you to the freedom which is your right. If so, might you perhaps learn to love him, in time?"

"No." It was a whisper, scarcely audible. "Had things been otherwise, perhaps… But there is someone…"

"Ah." Madeleine's voice was equally low. "Another man has engaged your heart? Then speak no more of that. And, I beg you, drop no hint to Monsieur."

"No, I shall not do that. I shall speak to him only of himself, and of the music that we share. I hope I may persuade him to free me. If he will not, then I must think of escape." She hesitated. "There is always _one_ manner of escape, but the Church tells us that it is a sin. I hope he may not drive me to that."

Madeleine's fingers stumbled on the scale she was playing. She began it again, and played it through several times before speaking.

"Mademoiselle, do one thing for me. Somewhere in this house is a key, a heavy key about a hand-span in length. If you see such a key, at a time when Monsieur is not here, show me where it is and let me examine it. Or perhaps one day when I go for provisions, you may see Monsieur take out the key to give me, or put it away when I get back. From this house, there is a passage to the Rue Scribe, but the passage ends in a gate. The key I seek unlocks that gate. Perhaps, at some time… it may be useful if we know where to find that key."

"I understand you," Christine replied after a pause. "I shall watch for such a key. But how will it help, if he always locks the house door?"

"There may be a way," she replied. "But it is dangerous. For now, go on as you have begun. Admire him, please him, do nothing to arouse his suspicions. And now, I think you should go to your room and rest, as he told you."

O-O-O

Time passed, and Monsieur went out more seldom, although he told Christine that he had sent a message to the old lady who was Christine's adoptive mother, telling her that Christine was safe and in his care. A note had also been sent to the Opera House management, saying that Christine was in need of rest and was taking a short leave of absence. He and Christine grew less restrained in Madeleine's presence; sometimes she heard him declare his love to Christine, while Christine lavished praise upon his genius. "When you are ready to be my bride," Madeleine heard him declare one day, "ah, then you shall truly know Erik's love, so much more love even than that which he gives you now." Madeleine did not catch all of Christine's soft-spoken answer; she seemed to say something about "when the time is right," without committing herself to when that time would be.

Madeleine pondered on Monsieur's sometimes strange way of speaking to Christine, as though he spoke of another person, not himself. It sounded elaborate, contrived, and in sharp contrast to the matter-of-fact way in which he spoke to Madeleine. Perhaps that was how a man in love was supposed to talk; Madeleine had no experience of such matters. Still, it was strange.

Christine never told Monsieur that she loved him, yet in her devoted admiration, he might find hope of love. It was clever deception; Madeleine's heart was wrung for Christine's pain in captivity, and for Monsieur's pain if ever she regained her freedom and left him. Surely there could be no good end to this.

Madeleine attended Christine to bed each night, and then they had a few minutes for conversation, although always on innocuous subjects. Only once, one afternoon when Monsieur was playing the pipe organ in his bedroom, did Christine seek out Madeleine in the kitchen for a few quiet words. "The key," she said. "When you gave it back to him this morning, I saw him take it into his bedroom. But I dare not search for it there."

"No, you must not do that," Madeleine replied. "But I tidy his room. I shall see if I can find it. Mademoiselle, you manage him well. Go on as you are doing."

"Necessity has been my teacher, Madeleine. Oh, how I hate playing him false like this! I respect him, I pity him, I could weep for him. He wants me so much, and yet, although I am in his power, he has never… never attempted force against me. In that, at least, he remains my Angel of Music. But he has put me in a position where I must lie to him, and I loathe myself for doing it."

Madeleine pressed Christine's hand in token of support. "You can do no other than what you are doing. Quickly now, go back to the living room and do not let him see that we have been speaking."

Thereafter, whenever Madeleine was in Monsieur's room, she pursued the search for the key. But she was not supposed to open cupboards or drawers. She only dared do so if she could hear him singing or playing in the living room, while she took the most meticulous care to leave no sign of her intrusion. Meanwhile, she pondered Christine's words. Why should Christine pity Monsieur? Surely he was, in this place, all-powerful. What could inspire pity? Perhaps that his love was not returned, or perhaps this secret which Christine had uncovered.

And then, what did he really feel for Christine? He called it love, but to Madeleine it was not love to imprison Christine and make her so miserable. Desire? Yes, it could be. Madeleine was glad to have Christine's assurance that Monsieur had not forced himself upon her, but who knew what he might do in the future? Was this obsession, monomania? She had heard the words, heard how some people became enslaved to a fixed idea, and were blinded to reality. But she found it difficult to understand, she who had learned in a hard school to face the world as it was, and deal with it.

But how was she to deal with this perilous situation? She did not know.

Not long after Madeleine's hasty conversation with Christine, it was Monsieur who came to speak with Madeleine in the kitchen, while Christine was resting.

"Madeleine, I fear Mademoiselle is not well. She speaks less, her step is listless, her face grows pale."

"Yes, Monsieur. I have noticed when I clear her plate that her appetite is poor."

"Has she spoken to you, at all? Do you know what troubles her?"

 _Of course I know_ , Madeleine thought. _You have locked her up and threatened never to free her, you terrify her, she is absolutely in your power. Are you too selfish, too blind to see all this?_

She did not, of course, reveal her thoughts. "Monsieur, she and I talk together at night, as she gets ready for bed. Mainly she speaks about her childhood, about how she travelled with her father around the villages and fairs in Sweden, how she enjoyed seeing new places. She does not talk about the Opera, or about… recent happenings."

"That does not help me. I want her to be well. I must not let her health deteriorate."

"Monsieur, if I may suggest… When I lived with my mother, one of our neighbours was a fowler. He trapped small birds, caged them, and sold them to people who wished to enjoy their song. But he told us that some birds never accepted the cage. They would not sing, they battered themselves against the bars. Sometimes they died, or sometimes he released them. He might hear them sing as they flew away."

"Foolish. If they flew away, he would never hear them sing again, and for all he knew they might be trapped by someone else. Better to keep them, and trust that in time they would grow accustomed to the cage."

Madeleine sighed. "In that case… perhaps a larger cage might help?"

After that, Monsieur started taking Christine out of the house, for walks along the lakeside, or rowing on the water. Later, a carriage was ordered, and he took her out driving, although always at night when there was less chance of being seen. The cage had grown larger, but it was still locked.

O-O-O O-O-O


	7. 7: The Cage Opens

7: The Cage Opens

"Erik, you say you love me, but how can you, when you do not even trust me?"

Christine's voice was sharper and less patient than usual, carrying clearly to Madeleine as she worked in the kitchen.

"You know the answer to that," he replied coldly. "Erik trusted you by inviting you to his secret home, and you betrayed that trust when you disobeyed him, and snatched the mask away."

"I know. I was wrong to do that, and I have begged your forgiveness many times. But, Erik, that was the act of a foolish child, a child who thought that angels spoke out of the walls, a child who believed the fables you told. Now, in this time with you, I have grown up. Now that I know you are a man, I have learned to be a woman, a woman who will never betray you. Can you not believe that?"

"Oh, Christine." His voice was softer now. "Erik wishes so much to believe that."

"Then let me prove it to you. Tomorrow is the masked ball at the Opera. I would dearly like to go. Let me go alone to the ball, Erik. I shall go masked and cloaked, so that no one can recognise me. Let me mingle with the crowds, to enjoy the colour and gaiety. And when the ball is over, I shall meet you in my dressing room, and willingly accompany you back here."

His answer was slow in coming. "Very well, Christine. If it means so much to you, it shall be so."

Monsieur went out next morning, returning with a black silk domino and mask for her to wear at the ball. In the evening, they went out together. Madeleine wondered if he would return after taking Christine up to the Opera House public rooms, but he did not. Hours later, she heard them come in. She should have been in bed by then, but there was no chance of sleeping that night. Clad in her dressing gown, she hovered silently in the passage between her room and the living room, where she had left the door slightly open. If discovered, she could claim that she was going to the bathroom. Monsieur might doubt that, might be angry, but she would take the risk. She wanted to know what had happened!

"You must be tired, Christine," she heard him begin. "You spoke hardly a word on the way down here. Of course, it was a long evening."

"I am not tired, Erik. I want to talk to you, now that we are here in the light. I have been thinking how best to say… what I wish to say."

"Well? Erik is listening."

"You said yesterday that, when I unmasked you, that was a betrayal. Was that why you betrayed me tonight? To get your revenge?"

"Betrayed you! Christine, what do you mean?!"

"You need not feign innocence. You promised to leave me alone for my evening out, and I promised to return to you at the end of the ball. I kept my promise but, Erik, you did not keep yours. You took me upstairs and pretended to leave me, but before very long, I saw you again, in your red costume. Did you think I would not recognise you? You could not bear to give me even those scant few hours of freedom, but you must needs watch me.

"And you found that I am not so easily watched. I know the Opera House well. Perhaps not so well as you, but in that milling crowd, in the noise and bustle, I was sure I could evade you. And evade you I did, although it spoiled my enjoyment of the evening. But I had a point to prove. I escaped your surveillance and I might have fled you, but I did not. I met you, where and when I had said I would meet you. I proved myself honest, and you proved yourself deceitful."

After a pause, he replied, "And now you are angry with me. But, oh, Christine, how can I tell you how much I fear to lose you? It would break Erik's heart if you were to go. You are Erik's treasure, and he must guard you."

A chair creaked as though Christine had thrown herself into it. "I am not angry, Erik. I am hurt that you thought my promise was as worthless as your own. Oh, never trouble to kneel to me, or mouth your words of love! Now I know what value to put on them. Base coin indeed. But you need not fear losing me. I shall wear your chains and endure your darkness. I shall be your puppet, and sing for you whenever you pull the strings. I think it will not be for long. I am weary, Erik, weary unto death."

"Christine, Christine, you must not say such things." His voice was indistinct, and Madeleine thought he must be crying. "Erik knows you are not well, but you must grow strong again. We must bring back your bloom of beauty. We must restore the roses to your cheeks."

"Flowers do not bloom in the dark, Erik. They wither."

There was a long silence, and when he spoke, it was so quietly that Madeleine strained to hear. "After all… you said you would come back… and you did. I must… remember that."

There was no answer. Madeleine heard the chair creak again, and fled back to her own room before Christine plodded slowly from the living room.

O-O-O

Next morning, Madeleine had barely started to organise her daily tasks when Monsieur came to her in the kitchen. "Madeleine, be quick with breakfast this morning. As soon as it is over, you are to go up and meet Jacques." He sounded agitated.

"Monsieur? He is not due until tomorrow."

"He will come today. I have sent a message. And when you go…" He hesitated. "When you go… you are to take Mademoiselle with you. I have made a copy of the gate key, for her to take away. You are to show her the way out, so that she may return here when she wishes. When Jacques comes, send him to fetch a cab, and you and Mademoiselle can wait inside the gate until he returns. Let her take the cab wherever she wants to go. I think she will go back to the old lady she lives with. But… but it is to be her choice."

Madeleine felt a surge of delight. Was he really letting Christine go? She kept her mind on practical matters. "If I am to show the way to Mademoiselle, then I must take a lantern, Monsieur. And if she is to learn it… in one trip? I am not sure… I think it took three times before I knew it well."

"A fair point. I shall give her some chalk, and tell her to mark the turns so that she will know them."

"Yes, Monsieur. And… does she have any money? The cab driver will have to be paid."

"I shall provide what she needs." He turned to go, but Madeleine thought she heard him whisper again, "She will learn that I shall give her… whatever she needs…"

O-O-O

The house was quiet now, too quiet. Erik prowled from room to room like a restless spirit. Occasionally he would pick out a few notes on the piano, but his heart was not in it. Madeleine served his meals with her usual unobtrusive skill, but he sent the food back barely touched. Repeatedly he checked that Christine's room was ready for occupation whenever she should return. He refused to consider any other possibility.

One evening, two or three days after Christine's departure, he sat staring at the fire, until he gradually became aware that Madeleine stood beside him, patiently waiting to get his attention.

"Well?" he asked listlessly.

"It is Saturday, Monsieur. At one time, you and I would spend Saturday and Sunday evenings in conversation. I wondered if you would care to resume that custom."

"Oh. I am hardly in any mood for companionship. But if you wish, pour yourself a glass of claret and sit here by the fire for a while. And bring me a cognac."

When she returned with the drinks, he picked up a newspaper which he had previously tossed aside. "I recall, Madeleine, I saw something in the paper which you might like. Just a poem about someone's favourite horse. Overly sentimental, as such things usually are, but with a good rhythm and use of language. Shall I read it to you?"

"Please, Monsieur. That would be kind."

He read the poem, rather tonelessly to begin with; but soon his eloquent voice was giving full expression to the words. Sentimental or not, he could not give a half-hearted performance. At the conclusion, he was on the point of making some critical remark about the piece, but realised that Madeleine was wiping away tears, and that she had not stirred during the reading, not even to drink her claret. He wondered briefly if that was a compliment to the poem or to his delivery, and hoped that the girl was not about to become maudlin.

She did not, of course. Steady, reliable Madeleine had learned long ago that he disliked emotional scenes. Taking a sip of her drink, she asked him in a level voice to repeat one of the earlier verses, and questioned him about a reference to some historical event which she had not understood. He explained, then took a volume from his bookshelf and read a passage which answered her questions in more detail. For a time he was distracted from his lonely thoughts, but even as he realised this, he felt the role of tutor becoming irksome.

Without needing to be told, Madeleine finished her drink, rose and thanked him for his patience, then went to her room, leaving him in peace. He glanced at the clock. The evening had passed a little more quickly than the previous ones. He could summon no enthusiasm for the kind of long conversations which he used to have with Madeleine, but he would find something else to read to her, the following evening. Reading aloud took no effort. It was better than thinking.

O-O-O

Over the next week or so, Monsieur continued to be quiet and distracted. He ate a little more, but Madeleine suspected that it was to pass the time rather than from any resurgence of appetite. He was missing Christine, she knew, but all the same she was glad that the visitor – the captive – had been freed. Madeleine had Monsieur to herself again, and was no longer torn between loyalty to him and revulsion at the way he had treated Christine. When, from time to time, he went to the piano and began to play soft, melancholy airs, she hoped that he was regaining his equilibrium.

One evening, there came a most unexpected sound – a knock on the front door. Monsieur hastened to open it, his steps louder than usual, and a moment later he was welcoming Christine into the living room.

"Christine, Christine, how you honour Erik, brightening this dark place with your presence. And you look so well! The glow that is now in your cheeks reproaches Erik for having shut you up here for so long, and made you so pale."

"It is good to see you, Erik. It is true that I found it hard to live without the sun. But I am here now. If you permit, I would like to stay with you for two days. Then I must go back, for I am due to perform. I hope you will come and hear me sing. But how is it with you, Erik? This time it is you who looks tired. You must take care of yourself, my friend." They talked on, a polite exchange of trivial compliments in Madeleine's presence. She wondered what might be said when she was out of earshot.

For two days, the mood changed in the house by the lake. There was music, there was camaraderie. Yet to Madeleine there was a brittle feeling to the happiness, as if any slight mishap could shatter it. Why had Christine come back? She sounded really concerned for Erik's welfare, even fond of him. And yet… and yet… she had spoken of another man, and Madeleine could not forget that. Still, the two days passed with no untoward incident. Monsieur escorted Christine back up to the main part of the Opera House, and returned alone much later in the evening, full of enthusiasm for how well she had performed on stage. Madeleine encouraged him to talk, and responded to his pleasure, genuinely glad to hear him so lively again after his recent despondency. If she felt a twinge of envy that it had taken Christine to rouse him so, she suppressed it. Christine could share his music, as Madeleine never could. That was a simple fact of life, which Madeleine had accepted.

There was a moment in the conversation, though, when he became more sober, more thoughtful. "I see now, Madeleine, that you were right in your story of the fowler. Some birds cannot accept the cage, and the only thing to do is to set them free. But did your bird-catcher ever speak of a freed bird returning to him and perching on his shoulder of its own accord?"

"No, Monsieur. He said that he had heard of such things, but that it had never happened to him. He spoke wistfully… he thought it must be a wonderful experience."

He sighed. "Yes, Madeleine. It is."

O-O-O O-O-O


	8. 8: Changes

8: Changes

After that, Christine came back to visit now and then. She seemed happy to be with Monsieur, and yet Madeleine was unsure about that. Something in Christine's voice and manner struck Madeleine as artificial, as though the singer were performing a role. Yet, at other times, she spoke to Monsieur with warmth and sympathy. Christine never sought Madeleine out for private conversations; if they chanced to be alone together, she was always polite, but had little to say.

Monsieur went out one day, a few days after Christine's latest visit. He was gone for many hours, and when he returned, he slammed the door and went straight to the pipe organ in his bedroom. Thunderous, tormented chords filled the house for an hour or more. Madeleine was afraid. Clearly something very bad had happened, and Madeleine guessed that it had to do with Christine. Had she thrown in her lot with that other man? Had Monsieur discovered it? What could be going through his mind?

O-O-O

He watched his own hands on the keyboard as he played. Hands with the skill to create all manner of clever devices, hands which could conjure the music of angels from the most mundane of instruments, hands which now called up discords to echo his turbulent thoughts.

 _So, my lady, you thought you could escape me by fleeing to the roof? How little you know me, after all, how little you know the extent of my domain. And now you prefer the pretty boy to me? You offer him your lips, which were never offered to Erik? Beware, my Christine, that the boy does not betray you as you have betrayed me. What poetic justice it would be, for you to feel the anguish that now consumes me._

 _Oh, but you throw me some crumbs. How kind! You give me your pity. You praise my music. How generous!_

 _You like music, my dear? Then Erik will give you music! Music such as the world has never heard, music to ensnare you, mind, heart and soul. You should have loved Erik when he gave you the chance. But now, I promise you, one way or another, you_ **shall** _be mine!_

The slender hands on the keyboard changed their movements, summoning forth chords of power and triumph. Hands which could say anything.

Hands which could deliver death.

O-O-O

Christine never returned, and Monsieur changed in the days and weeks that followed. The evening conversations stopped. His absences grew less predictable, and Madeleine ceased her wanderings, lest they be discovered. He talked to himself, sometimes giving vent to malicious laughs, more often to angry curses. These were not directed at Madeleine, but she took care to do her work properly, and not to give him cause for complaint.

She soon realised that Monsieur was throwing himself into his music more than ever, composing and playing pieces which she had never heard before. This new work unsettled her. It sounded full of anger and pain. One evening, he was working at the piano while she washed dishes. The playing had paused, as it often did while he wrote, but she was startled suddenly to feel his hand on her shoulder as he turned her to face him. Her face was wet with tears.

"Why are you crying?" he asked abruptly.

"It… that music… it is so sad. Like… a lead weight, here." She pressed a hand to her chest. "So much pain…"

"Good. If it affects you like that, with your musical naïveté, it will affect even those closed-eared morons up in the Opera House. And the piece I was playing this afternoon… what did you make of that?"

"It frightened me," she replied at once. "Anger, power… like thunder. I mean, it did not sound like thunder, but it carried the threat." She wiped her eyes with an unsteady hand. "I have never heard anything like it…"

"That is because you have never known anyone like me," he asserted. "My life story is in that music, the work of years. Anguish, fury… Many things. But now I shall have it performed, full orchestra, full cast of singers. I must form it into an opera, shape it to a mould which they will understand. And then… my triumph."

He returned to work, and did not speak to her again for some time. For a day or two, he worked on one song that had a light-hearted joy which cheered Madeleine, but when it was finished he returned to the darker themes, carrying undercurrents of rage, or of cruelty. He sat at piano or organ, seemingly for days on end, with little rest. He never stopped for meals. Madeleine, unasked, would put food and drink on a tray and set it down where he could see it. When she retrieved the tray later, sometimes he had eaten, sometimes not. She was afraid for him, and it was with relief that, one day, she heard the thump of a book being closed, and his mutter of, "It is done."

Once more he began leaving the apartment regularly. At home, he sometimes spoke to her, and she understood that the opera company was rehearsing his work _, Don Juan Triumphant_. She thought he had used threats to enforce his will on them. He talked of various cast members, the parts they played, their foibles and weaknesses, but he never mentioned the leading lady of his opera. Madeleine felt sure that it must be Christine, but her name remained unspoken. He was exultant that his work was to be performed in this grand setting, but anger still burned in him. Sometimes he talked to himself of betrayal and revenge. Madeleine continued to keep the spare room clean and ready, but he no longer checked her work.

The day came when _Don Juan Triumphant_ was to open. Monsieur left the apartment early, and Madeleine was oppressed with a sense of impending doom. She tidied everything and made up the fires, then retreated to her room to await events. With the door from the living room to the passage slightly ajar, and her bedroom door open, she could hear what passed, unobserved.

Monsieur returned, and Christine was with him. Even before she could distinguish the words, Madeleine knew from the voices that both were angry. This time Christine came not willingly but by force, though she spoke to him defiantly. Why had he done this? Madeleine hoped fervently that he did not have rape in mind. Reluctant as she was to interfere, powerless though she knew herself to be, she could not stand by and leave another woman to endure that suffering… and nor did she want Monsieur to poison his soul with such a crime. She stood tense and shivering, prepared to throw herself into the room if events took that turn.

But there was a diversion. Another man blundered into the scene. Alert, Madeleine was as ready to rush to Monsieur's defence as, a moment ago, she had been ready to thwart him. But there was no need. After a brief scuffle, Monsieur's triumphant laugh told her that the intruder had been overpowered. The story unfolded itself to Madeleine. The newcomer, addressed by Christine as Raoul, was in love with Christine, and she with him. Monsieur wanted Christine… could you call it love, when expressed with such violence? And now Monsieur had a hostage. Christine must yield to him, or watch Raoul die. It seemed that she would yield… there was a long silence. In that silence, Madeleine became aware of a new sound, distant, an angry growl of many voices.

Then Monsieur spoke again, but his voice now was low, shaken. Madeleine strained to catch his meaning… He was telling them to go! Both of them! To go and leave him.

Tears spilled from Madeleine's eyes. She had misjudged him. He did love Christine after all, loved her enough to give her her freedom, whatever the cost to himself. Oh God, whatever the cost…

O-O-O

In the living room, Erik slumped in his chair and drew his cloak about him. The fire burned brightly, fuelled by a thick sheaf of paper, _Don Juan Triumphant_ consumed in the flames of hell. How appropriate. He had worked on his masterpiece for years, and had once believed that when it was finished, he would die. Now, it was truly finished.

How had his universe spun awry? His triumph shattered to disaster? Christine. It had all turned on Christine…

It began with her voice, the voice which he knew he could perfect, to carry his music to the world. If only it had stopped there! But she had awoken love in his unpractised heart, love which consumed him, built irresistible dreams in his mind. He had dreamed of her as his obedient, submissive bride, accepting him as her master in life as she had accepted him as her teacher. She owed him that, after all that he had done for her. And he could not relinquish his dream, not even after that night on the roof, when he had heard her so treacherously offer her love to the pathetic Vicomte. She would see her mistake. He would make her understand that she belonged to Erik.

And so he brought her back to his sanctum, where she had learned to love his music. But this defiant Christine, undaunted by his terrible, unmasked face, was not the passive doll-bride of his dreams. He had seen in her eyes that she would rather die than be his bride, but he could deny her the means of death, for she was in his power now. She was in his power… Suddenly the full meaning of those words sprang to his mind. He could subjugate her to his passion. If she would not give her love freely, then might he take it by force? He was horrified that he could even contemplate such an act, and yet… if a man were dying of thirst, would he refuse water, even if he knew the cup was poisoned? This thirst which burned in him…

He would never know, now, if he could have acted upon that evil plan, so destructive of his long-held dream of a perfect marriage. For her ineffectual Raoul, trying to play the hero, had thrown himself into Erik's power, giving him the final weapon he needed to conquer her resistance. Christine might have preferred death for herself, but would she stand by and watch Raoul die? How imperiously Erik had declared that, if she continued to refuse him, she would see her lover murdered. But if she would consent to be Erik's wife, Raoul would go free.

Yet even as he threw the challenge at her, Erik felt something quail in his heart, saw his dream-marriage crumble to fragments in his mind. He had hesitated at the thought of possessing himself of her body. But to compel her to the altar by threats to the boy… was that not equally a violation? Would she not shrink away from him, even while she obeyed him? What kind of marriage would that be?

Then Christine confounded all his expectations. When he delivered his ultimatum she might have argued, she might have pleaded with him. But she spoke no word. Instead, she stepped up to him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, the first time in his life that he had ever felt the touch of another's lips on his. Oh, that long, warm kiss, freely offered, that lissome body pressed to his. Erik trembled but could not move, could not return her embrace, dumbfounded by revelation. _Christine would be his willing bride! She would try to love him! The kiss was her promise._

She released him and stepped back a little, her eyes fixed expectantly on him, without fear or horror. And Erik felt his own eyes fill with tears, felt them coursing down his cheeks. Helplessly he fell to his knees at her feet, kissing the hem of her gown. Then he glanced up, scarcely daring to meet her gaze, and she was weeping, too! Her tears fell on his face and mingled with his own, her hand reached out and caressed his cheek. "Poor Erik," he heard her murmur. "Poor, unhappy Erik."

It was that which broke his heart. After all that he had done, she could weep for him, pity him. For such a woman, no gift was too great, no effort was too much. He could not reward her as she deserved, but what he could do, would be done. He released the boy, he told them to take the boat and go. He wept again when he saw the joy on her face as she understood, yet he was glad that his last glimpse should be of happiness which he had given her. At the last moment, she turned to give him back the ring which he had once placed on her finger, and she kissed him once more, this time in farewell. Then they were gone, and Erik was left alone in the faded splendour of his lair, watching his hopes go up in flames like his masterpiece.

From a pocket in the cloak, he pulled one of his spare masks, and stared at it by the flickering light. In his lifetime he had worn many masks and disguises, but this was the Phantom's mask, crafted to fit the role when he became the Phantom of the Opera. But the Phantom's time was over. Erik would never wear that mask again. Why did death not take him now? His life was at an end. Every heartbeat, every unwanted breath in his lungs prolonged the agony. Come, kindly death…

But death is not kind, nor was the sound that penetrated his dulled senses. Voices, footsteps, sounds of anger. "Revenge," they cried. That drew him to his feet. He might choose death for himself, but never would he let that contemptible mob choose it for him. He must flee, or end it now.

Then end it.

A knife? A noose? With distaste, he thought of the mob finding and pawing over his body. That was not right. The Phantom of the Opera should simply… vanish. The lake! The black water had always been his friend. Tossing the mask on the chair, he went out to the quay, empty now with the boat long gone. There lay his grave. But bodies float…

A few stone blocks were piled by the wall, left over from some repairs he had made. Dropping his cloak, he picked up a block and clasped it to his chest. Embracing stone, when he had dreamed of embracing… No. Too much. Don't think.

Standing on the edge of the quay, he let himself fall backwards into the water, the relentless weight of the stone forcing him down. A momentary chill, a hard blow… and nothingness.

O-O-O

In her room, Madeleine sat trembling, completely at a loss. Monsieur's voice, as he spoke the last words she had heard, told her of a broken heart, a broken spirit. What would he do now? He must be feeling as… as she had felt, when the rapists had abandoned her in the alley and gone off, laughing. Usually she suppressed the memory of that time, but now it filled her mind. She had wished for nothing so much as to die. An accident had stopped her flight at the Opera House, but she recalled that she had been trying to make her way to the Jardin des Tuileries, and then to the river…

The distant voices sounded clearer, shouting and threatening. Silence from the living room, then footsteps, the front door, a splash… _Oh, no! Not that, not him!_ With a sob, she ran through the house, rebounding from door frames and furniture in her haste, desperately calling for him and getting no answer. God, let her be mistaken… the quayside… but where…? Dropping to hands and knees, she groped her way along the edge. She felt the wet patch where water had splashed up, and her hand found Monsieur's cloak, lying on the stone.

How deep was the lake? She could not swim. Lying on the edge, she thrust hand and cane down, feeling for the bottom. The water would come up to about her shoulders, she judged. She could stand in it. And if she was wrong – what did it matter? Better to spend her life for his sake, better to lie at his side in the depths, than a lifetime of regretting that she had not tried.

Then the cane touched something else, something soft. Laying the cane aside, she slid into the water, took a breath, and plunged under. Her clothes hampered her, but somehow she reached the inert form, seized his coat and pulled. Something was holding him, then he came free. She dragged him to the surface and held up his head, but there was no response. Clumsily she pushed him up on to the quay, shoulders, chest… as he doubled over at the waist, his legs still in the water, she thought she heard a cough or a gasp, but he did not move. Gripping his legs, she pushed again until he lay on the stone, then she struggled to free herself from the biting cold of the water. Her hand found a mooring ring, and with its help, she crawled clear.

Now what? Those people… closer now, not more than one level above. Surely they would find the way here soon, and their shouts were angry. No help there, only danger. She must get him away, quickly, and she knew where to go. But how to move him? He was breathing, but made no response even when she shook him. Feeling for his head, she slapped his face, then jerked her hand back. That had felt more like a skull, under her hand… no, this was not the time. All that mattered now was to move. He was not a heavy man, but she could never carry him. Spreading out his cloak, she rolled him on to it, then wrapped it around him and used her apron to tie the cloak tightly to his body. If she held the collar, she could drag him, and the floors were fairly smooth. Pause… think a moment… retrieve the cane… she must make no mistake now. Once sure of the way, she set off quickly with her burden.

Perhaps ten minutes later, though it felt like hours, she stopped, gasping for breath, at the door which blocked the passage. She worked the hidden catches, slid the inert body through, and closed the door behind her. Would any of the pursuers think to follow the wet trail through the corridors? If they did, she had to hope that the door would defeat them. Gathering her strength, she set off once more towards the sanctuary.

O-O-O

When she had done all she could, Madeleine sat quietly and rested. The stove was hot now, and Monsieur's clothes were draped near it to dry. She had dressed him in a warm shirt and trousers, workmen's clothes from the cupboard, before she hoisted his unconscious body to the bed. She had dried her own garments, but she knew that they must be crumpled and untidy. There were women's clothes here, but they were not for her. Eventually, she heard him stir. If he was waking, he would want light. She lit a candle, and moved her chair to his bedside.

"What… what is this?" he whispered. "Surely… this is the refuge. Madeleine? How do I… how do we come to be here? No one knows this place…"

"I know it. I found it months ago, exploring, when you were away. I brought you here. I feared those people were enemies."

"Yes, they were enemies. But what did it matter...?" His voice was weak, and he seemed barely conscious. "Christine…? Oh… I let her go… I let both of them go… And then… I would not let the mob bring me to bay, like a hunted stag. I took… the nearest way out. At least, so I thought." She heard him moving again. "Did you do this…? Bandage my head? Why?"

"You are hurt. A graze, swelling, some blood… here." Reaching her hand to his shoulder, she ran it gently up the side of his head. "Perhaps you hit it when you went into the lake, or perhaps I caused it when I pushed you out."

Her touch sharpened his awareness. "Oh. And I suppose those busy little fingers of yours have been exploring the rest of my secrets, discovering this horror that I call a face."

"Of course I touched you. I dried you and warmed you and did my best to check for injuries. I found… some strangeness, but nothing of horror." Strangeness, yes. Now she understood why Christine had screamed when she unmasked him. His face reminded her of a death's-head carved on a gravestone, but she did not recoil from him, did not love him less. She had even kissed his thin lips while he lay unconscious, but this was not the time to tell him that.

"No horror…? You must be the only one…" Now that she no longer touched him, his voice faded back into its previous hesitancy. Madeleine felt that he was talking to himself, or perhaps to ghosts in his memory. "People… shrink away with revulsion. Even my own parents… could not live with a freak. I fled to the gypsies. They knew that a freak could be profitable… we toured the fairs… but always, the same story. My appearance disgusts people. Most flee in fear. Others… attack. No warning… just the hatred..."

"How can they? That is so unjust! But for myself… may I give back to you the words you spoke to me at our first meeting? I am the last person who should reproach you for your appearance."

She heard him draw a laboured breath, as he responded again to her presence. "But who helped you? You could not have done all this alone."

"And yet I did. Do you think I would tell anyone else about your secret doors, about this sanctuary? I had no help."

He sighed, his voice still weak. "I suppose you think yourself clever."

She thought for a moment before answering. "That depends on you. If, now, you decide that you want to live, then what I did was… perhaps clever, or at least resolute. For it was not easy, I admit. But if you really want death, if you would rather I had left you at the bottom of the lake… then I was not clever but foolish and selfish, acting wrongly because I could not bear to lose you. So you tell me, Monsieur. Was I foolish, or was I clever? Do you choose death, or life?"

She waited a long time for an answer, then she heard the bedclothes rustle as he sank wearily into the pillows. "I shall… consider the question… and let you know in due course."

O-O-O O-O-O


	9. 9: Coming to Terms

9: Coming to Terms

Madeleine drifted slowly up from a deep sleep. Memory stirred… Monsieur had been sleeping quietly, so finally she had made up the second bed for herself. It felt as though she had slept for a long time. What had woken her…? A smell…? Coffee! She roused herself.

"Awake at last?" Monsieur's voice asked her. "You must have been exhausted, sleeping like the dead. You did not even wake at the noise when I raked out the stove. Sit up now, and have your coffee."

She pushed herself upright, then suddenly pulled the blanket up, remembering how lightly-clad she was.

"Do not be uneasy," Monsieur said. "Your shift is quite decent. If we are to share these close quarters for a while, we must learn to be less formal." He took her hand and guided it to a coffee cup. She drank gratefully, while Monsieur went on – was that a smile in his voice? – "After all, you did strip me naked yesterday, and dressed me afresh."

She smiled tentatively in reply. "But I promise, I did not look at you!"

"Ha! True. And I shall not look at you, if you wish to change your clothes. But feel free to use the washroom, if it makes you more comfortable. Indeed, you must want to go there now, after your long sleep." As Madeleine made to rise, Monsieur guided her feet into soft slippers, and wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders. "There are clothes in the wardrobe. You should use them."

"They are not mine… You did not bring them here for me, but for…"

The catch in his breath was soft, but she heard it, and stopped. After a moment, he continued in the same light tone as before. "There have been times when I have dressed as a woman, but these are not my size! They will fit you well enough."

Some time later, Madeleine emerged from the washroom, wearing the plain woollen dress from the cupboard.

"Not the velvet?" he asked in a carefully bland tone.

Madeleine had examined both dresses the first time she found the refuge. The velvet was beautiful, expensive, a dress a man might buy for the woman he loved, a dress which he would not wish to see on another. But she gave no hint of these thoughts.

"Velvet is more difficult to wear. It is heavy, and is easily marked. This is more comfortable and practical. But if you would rather I changed – "

"No, no. I'm sure you are right."

She could tell that he was trying not to think of Christine and all that he had lost. Instead, he was attentive to Madeleine, seating her and giving her breakfast. She had, after all, saved his life. The question remained unanswered, of whether he had wanted to be saved.

When Madeleine rose to take her plates to the sink, he remarked, "You are not moving comfortably. I thought at first that you were stiff from long sleep, but it gets worse, not better."

"My back hurts a little," she confessed. "It is nothing."

"It is strain, from all that you did yesterday. Hardly surprising. Stand up straight…" He moved behind her, running his hands down her back, then over her shoulders and neck. She flinched a little. "I can help you with massage, if you permit me. An arcane skill I acquired during my Eastern travels."

"Yes… thank you…" She was in more pain than she would admit.

Monsieur went to the cupboard, then returned and put a shawl into her hands. "I need to be able to touch your back directly. Rearrange your clothes, then lie face down on your bed with blankets to your waist, and the shawl over your shoulders."

Madeleine retreated to the washroom, removed some of her clothes, and emerged with her dress folded down to her waist and the shawl wrapped round her upper body. Then she arranged herself on the bed as he had told her. There was a moment of silence, and she realised that, true to his word, he had not been watching. "I'm ready," she said softly. He came to the bedside and gently placed his hands flat on her back. She gave a small exclamation.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No… it is just that… your hands are warm…"

He chuckled. "I warmed them at the stove. Cold is your enemy now." He began stroking down the line of the big back muscles. "Most people are surprised by the natural cold touch of my skin. It shows how familiar you are with my hands, that the lack of cold surprised you. But in truth, guiding and teaching you, I must have touched you more than anyone in my life…" His voice trailed off into sadness, and Madeleine sought quickly for a way to distract him.

"Monsieur… Monsieur Erik… I am sorry, I do not know your other name."

"My name?" He sounded surprised that she had spoken of it, but not displeased. "My name, as you have learned, is Erik. I need no other name, and no title. You may call me Erik, if you wish." He had found the strained muscles, and moved his fingers now in small, soft circles, releasing the tension. Madeleine felt the pain drain away, but she also felt her heart beat faster. If he was aware of that, he gave no sign. His hands slid up, under the shawl, to her shoulders. Strong fingers pressed more deeply here, loosening the tight tendons of her neck. "So tell me, Madeleine, how is it that you can waft through my hidden doors which have defeated all comers for years?"

"Perhaps… you designed them to deceive prying eyes. Did you even think about prying fingers? I must touch to find my way. I notice a touch that feels wrong, a brick not properly anchored to its fellows, a breath of air coming through a seemingly solid wall." She talked of tricks she had learned in childhood, to count her steps, to memorise turns, to note textures of floor and walls, to make little rhymes in her head to help her remember a route.

Eventually, to Madeleine's regret, Erik ceased massaging her back. He tucked the shawl about her, and pulled the blankets up to cover her. "That will do for now. Rest for a few minutes, then get up. The pain will return, but it should be less, and it is better that you move a little."

Madeleine lay still, her face turned towards the wall, thinking about how he had touched her. She had known for a long time that she loved him, but only now did she realise how much desire was part of that love. Those hands… strong or gentle, demanding or coaxing… it was as well that he had kept her talking, or else she could surely never have hidden her feelings. His touch was healing, but she had wished his detachment could change to passion, wished his hands had roamed further… She suppressed a sigh. He knew desire, but not for her. She must control herself, with him so near. But… next time she was alone, whenever that would be… she promised herself that she would give her imagination free rein. Though it could never happen in reality, within the privacy of her own mind she would recall his touch, know his embrace, hear that marvellous voice whisper words of love…

Madeleine clenched her hands, digging nails into her palms. Time to wake from foolish dreams. He had gone to a chair on the other side of the room, and she heard him turning pages of a book. Confident now that he would not watch her, she rose and put her clothing to rights. Disciplining her mind took a little longer.

Between them, they attended to the few housekeeping tasks in the refuge, then both sat and rested. Erik asked Madeleine about her early life, people she had known, things she had done and learned. Again she felt that he wanted to avoid thinking about his own life, and about the drastic change that had come to him. After several hours, though, she could not help asking, "What will happen to your home now? For I think the mob must have found it, shortly after we had gone."

"They will have taken out their anger on my belongings. What they don't steal, they may smash. It is inconvenient, no more. Nothing there was irreplaceable. We can stay here for a few days, until the fuss has died down, then I will go back and see what is left."

"You don't think they will find us here?"

"I doubt if they have anyone as subtle as you to help them. You said we left a wet trail to here, but that will have dried long before they finished ransacking the house. There are no footprints, because there is no dust in the passages. I have always kept them clean."

"Might they use dogs… bloodhounds? A scent trail…"

"Damn!" he exclaimed. "Now I really hope they have no one like you helping them. I did not think of dogs. It's a salutary lesson that those of us who see, pay too little attention to the other senses." He paced back and forth across the room. "I had better go back and see what is happening." He hesitated. "I cannot take you with me. I move faster alone. But I am not sure it is wise to leave you here. If I am delayed… if searchers should come this way… you might be in danger."

"I could not find any other way out of this room. Is there one?"

"There is, and I am pleased that some of my tricks outwitted your nimble fingers. But the back door was designed to defeat any searcher clever enough to get this far. It opens on a vertical shaft, needing ropes and pulleys to negotiate it. I can climb it, and if necessary I could take… take another person that way. But you could not do it alone."

"Then perhaps… Is it day or night? I have lost track."

"Evening."

"Then let us go to that room where you first found me. It's very close. In the dark, no one will see me from outside. Show me how the grating works, and if there is danger from within, I can escape to the street."

"A poor place to leave you, but… very well. I should not be gone more than an hour or two."

Madeleine demonstrated to Erik that she could quickly unlock and re-lock the refuge door. Across the passage, at the other door, he showed her the catches which held it, and how to release the grating which led to the street. As she had suspected, he had improved the fastening since the time she fell through it accidentally, but iron rungs set in the wall made it easy to reach and, once taught, she could manage it. He had brought some blankets and pillows, that her wait might not be too uncomfortable. Then he set off to see what had happened.

O-O-O

Erik, wearing black, with a hood and gloves, carried a dark-lantern at his waist, but it was unlit. He could move through these passages in pitch darkness, as confidently as Madeleine in a familiar room. But it was not quite the same, for he had first used these hidden ways with his eyes, with lanterns, and indeed he had built many of them himself. He took an indirect route back to his house, crawling through air vents and void spaces, until he could look through a grill, down into his living room. As he had expected, the place had been ransacked, but there seemed to be no systematic hunt for him. A lamp was lit, and one man was in the room, but if he was a guard he was a poor one, snoring in an armchair with empty wine bottles scattered about him on the floor.

Erik checked a few other spy-holes, to be sure that the sleeping man was alone, then he slipped through a secret trapdoor and into his bedroom. His first target was the cupboard where he kept masks, wigs, stage make-up and other tools of disguise. It had been opened and the contents scattered, but they were mostly undamaged, and he quickly scooped them into a pillowcase as a convenient carry-sack. Then to the living room, where his silent tread did not disturb the man in the chair. The bookcase with his music manuscripts had been overturned, papers strewn on the floor, but he trod over these unheeding, passing behind the guard and touching a spring in the wall panelling. This secret had not been discovered. Behind the panel was a cache of some money and a few small, valuable items. These he took, leaving the living room by the back door, as silently as he had come.

As an afterthought, he went into Madeleine's bedroom and picked up her knitting bag. He had books in the refuge, but she might find time hanging heavy without some occupation. He recalled how she had submitted herself to the massage. An old doctor had taught him the techniques years ago, when he lived in a palace, respected and feared. There, he had practised on hapless slaves who had no choice but to obey him, but who could not conceal their repugnance. Madeleine had been tense when he first touched her, but soon she had relaxed, yielding herself to his hands. It was an expression of trust, strangely pleasing. Long ago, in another place, there had been a cat which would sit on his lap as he stroked it, purring itself to sleep. Yes, to be trusted by a living creature was a pleasure, one rarely granted to him.

Making his way back, he began planning the future. As soon as he could arrange matters, it would be better to get away from the Opera House for a while, until the excitement had been forgotten. He had other hideaways, and this place had too many memories… memories which his mind shied away from. Madeleine… he would have to arrange something for her. There were charitable institutions which looked after the blind and gave them useful employment. He thought for a moment about a woman who could pull a drowning man from the bottom of a lake, and drag him to safety with a baying mob snapping at her heels. Tried to picture her spending her days at a table in a circle of blind people, weaving baskets or hemming pen wipes. Well, she would have to live with it, as he had had to live with the outcast life forced on him.

He looked a little further ahead, to his next moves when Madeleine had gone, but into the empty space she left, his treacherous memory conjured another shape, a beautiful vision which would not be banished. Struggling to regain control of his own mind, Erik again summoned up the image of Madeleine. What she needed from him, what she could do for him… these were practical thoughts, carrying no emotional burden. It was better to think about Madeleine. Perhaps he should not dismiss her too soon.

O-O-O O-O-O


	10. 10: New Knowledge

10: New Knowledge

Erik summoned Madeleine from her temporary hiding-place, and they both returned to the refuge. When he gave her the knitting bag, she thanked him without being too effusive. She was more concerned with the injury to his head, still covered by her hasty bandage from yesterday, a strip torn from her petticoat. At first inclined to ignore it as unimportant, when he realised that he had bled through the bandage which was now sticking to his skin, he was more willing to sit quietly and let her soak it away with warm water. As she worked patiently at it, she asked him what else he had salvaged from the house, and he explained about the disguise materials.

"I know about your shaped mask and the wig." She gestured to her own face.

He raised his eyebrows. "How do you know about that? I have not worn them since we came here. Oh… I suppose Christine told you."

"No, it was before she came. You left them on your bedside table. I wondered what they were."

"I remember. I had forgotten to put them away. But I thought that you had not noticed. They did not appear disturbed."

"I put them back carefully." She detached the last of the bandage from his head, dabbed the water from the swollen area, and left it to dry. "You said yourself... I am a woman, and I can be curious. I broke no rules. Tidying your bedroom was my proper work."

"Well, at any rate, you know what it is that I must conceal, if I would not be hunted like an animal. Or... do you know enough about faces, to know how malformed mine is?"

"As a child, I would often ask people I met if I might touch their face, to know what they were like. In the main, they allowed it. Ladies would explain details of their costume. People helped me to understand the world. As I grew older, I found it better not to ask. Children are more tolerated." She reached a hand towards him. "Would you... You know I touched you, when I brought you here unconscious. But I was less concerned with how you looked, than with whether you would die. May I look at you again, in my own way?"

He sighed. "Yes, if you must. Yesterday, my plan to seize… my plans went awry. In the confusion, I was unmasked on stage, in front of hundreds of people. What does one more matter?"

He took her hands and placed them on his cheeks. Gently she stroked his skull-face, frowning slightly in concentration. Eventually he asked, "Well – what do you think?"

"I think… that for you to allow me this freedom… shows great trust, a trust which honours me. I think that… for anyone to unmask you, expose your face to view, without your consent… must be an unspeakable violation."

He paused before answering. "It has happened, more than once. And yes, violated is how I felt. Yet I hesitate to use the word to you, when I think of the physical assault that you suffered before we met."

"We shall not play a childish game of 'my bruise is bigger than your bruise.' We both know what it is to be hurt."

"Well then… what do you think of my face, now that your hands have learned it so well?"

"I think it is sad. Something went wrong in the making of you, just as something went wrong in the making of me, to make my eyes useless. Now I understand why you wear the mask. But to avoid the censure of the world… If you were seen in the mask, and then without it, then for a while you should find some different way to change your appearance." Her voice was dispassionate, assessing without judging. "This must have been a great burden, and you must be very strong in all ways, to have survived."

Erik felt a kind of fascination. His face had always been a blight on him, a nightmare to others, something to be cursed and hidden away. Madeleine saw it as a simple, practical problem to be dealt with, the way she dealt with her own blindness.

Again she traced the outline of his lips. "Yes, difficult to disguise," she murmured.

"Indeed. Not a mouth anyone would choose to kiss," he replied bitterly, with the unspoken thought, _unless for a great reward_.

But Madeleine smiled. "Oh, that sounds like a childhood dare. I never could resist those." To Erik's utter astonishment, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, a gentle and warm caress. "You see?" she went on calmly. "Not difficult at all. But as to disguise... If you have wigs, do you have false beards? A full beard and heavy moustache would cover much of the strangeness."

"But not all."

"Tinted spectacles… and a birthmark, perhaps? I have been told of birthmarks. Part of the skin is the wrong colour. I imagine it as if... as if I tore a silk dress, and patched it with sackcloth, or leather. It would be simply wrong."

"Yes, a fair comparison. I shall think along those lines. Thank you, Madeleine. A fresh perspective is helpful. You may leave the graze on my head; it will heal well enough now."

She tidied away the bowl and sponge she had used, remarking, "It is so unfair that they should come hunting you like that, just because they had seen your face."

"They did not become really angry until they found Fonta's body."

There was a long silence from Madeleine, and she slowly turned to face him. "What...?" she whispered.

"Oh, you did not know? You seem to find out everything. I told you about Fonta, the leading tenor. He got in my way, and I had to remove him."

Madeleine groped to a chair, and slumped into it, her face bloodless. "Could you not have... imprisoned him somewhere, bound him...?"

"But that takes time, and time was precious. Besides, have you not heard the old saying, 'Dead men tell no tales'? Why so stricken, Madeleine? He was unimportant. He did not matter."

"He mattered to himself. To his family and friends." She seemed to find speech difficult. "Well... I have no family or friends. If ever I am in your way, you can be assured that I matter even less than Fonta."

"Madeleine, that is unkind! I have no wish to be rid of you. And if we have to part, I shall make sure to place you somewhere safe."

"And going to this safe place, shall I trip over the bodies of others who were in your way?"

"You're talking nonsense – enough! I am going out now, to patrol the building. There has been no disturbance; you should be safe enough here. If you decide to leave, you know the way. Oh, and if you leave, you will need some money." He slammed a handful of coins on the table, making Madeleine jump at the noise. "If you stay, go to bed. Perhaps you will make more sense in the morning."

Erik strode off down the passage with less than his usual care. Stupid girl! To make such a fuss over a nobody like Fonta. Just as well she did not know more of his history… He had thought she understood, being herself an outsider. Because of his accursed face, the whole world was his enemy. The world gave him nothing, and he owed it nothing. He would make his own way, and the rest could stand aside, or beware!

He slipped around the auditorium and under the stage, paying more attention now, but the place was deserted and silent, with perhaps a single watchman sleeping in some remote corner. In the orchestra pit, some sheets of music had been left scattered in the confusion. The smaller instruments had been taken away, the larger ones remained. Did the mob think that their ghost could be driven away so easily? Perhaps he should teach them otherwise. Moving to the timpani, he picked up the sticks and held them poised. A thunderous roll should wake things up… but he thought better of it, put down the sticks and moved quietly away. No sense in stirring up more trouble.

Were there other things that he should think twice about? He had always blamed all his misfortunes on his face. Well, tonight, Madeleine had learned his face, almost better than he knew it himself, with no fear, no horror, just friendly interest. She had even kissed him, as though it were a game, pleasant enough but unimportant. But when she learned of the killing… _then_ she recoiled from him with sick revulsion. Not his appearance but his deeds condemned him. Christine… Christine had said almost the same, that his warped soul mattered more than his face. And she had kissed him too, but that was understandable, that was the promise she was willing to make, to buy her lover's life. Perhaps he should not have let her go… But what he wanted was for her to return his love, and he knew now that that was impossible. Mere possession of her body could never satisfy his burning need. Nothing could.

Wearily, Erik returned to the refuge, wondering if Madeleine would have fled from him. No, she was there, in bed and pretending to sleep. He had intended, hours ago, to massage her back again, and employ some tricks he knew to help her sleep. That would not happen now. She would never relax under his hands after what had been said. Her strained back would have to heal in its own time. But she had left one candle alight for him, and he wondered if it was an offer of truce. Morning would tell.

O-O-O

Madeleine rose first and began to prepare their breakfast, setting two places at the table while Erik dressed. But she was unusually clumsy, spilling things or knocking them over. When she dropped a cup to smash on the floor, she gasped and stood still, clasping her hands tightly together.

"Madeleine…" Erik stood close in front of her, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "I do not like to see you so afraid of me. I am your safe haven, as always."

"I am not… not afraid of you, Erik, not for myself. Afraid perhaps of things you might do, afraid _for_ you if you continue on this path. You have always been so good to me, and I never imagined that, to others…"

"Ah. I begin to see. You thought of me as some martyred saint, bravely bearing my suffering. Now you find that your idol has feet of clay indeed, and it shocks you. But Madeleine, the world is my enemy, with very, very few exceptions. Let the others look out for themselves. Their law does not protect me – why should I be bound by it?"

"But Fonta – a harmless singer. Surely he was no threat to you. To kill such a man just because he was in your way… that is not only a crime, it is unjust. I know injustice has been heaped upon you, and if you took revenge on the perpetrators, I could understand. But to slaughter the weak, when you are so strong… I thought you more of a man than that."

A blush tinted Erik's pale cheeks, and he was glad that she could not see it. "Well, it is done. Many things were done that day, that I might do differently now, but we get no second chances. But you, Madeleine. What will you do now? Soon I will leave this place and go elsewhere. If you wish to come with me, you could be useful to me, in more ways than just as a maid. If you do not, then I promise I will find a safe home for you. Come with me willingly, or not at all."

Madeleine bowed her head in thought, for a long time. Then she straightened up, and clasped Erik's hand in both her own. "The world is not perfect, nor I, nor you. We must go on. While I can be of use, I will stay with you."

O-O-O

They spent the day together in the refuge, Madeleine knitting, Erik reading, or writing letters. Madeleine wondered how she could have been so impudent as to kiss him yesterday. But his words had been such an opening… she could not resist the temptation. At any rate, that was an honest kiss, not like the stolen one when he lay unconscious. And… he was undoubtedly surprised by it, but not repelled. She had once thought herself soiled beyond redemption by what had happened in her past, and she had believed that he thought so, too. Perhaps, after all, time could wash away the contamination.

When her thoughts returned from yesterday to the present, Madeleine noticed something strange. Usually, when Erik was engaged in a quiet task, he would hum, or sing softly to himself, or perhaps his fingers would tap out some intricate rhythm on the table. Today, she heard none of that, nor had she since they were in the refuge. Once she herself, absent-mindedly, began to hum the little melody he had written for her. He said immediately, "Madeleine, would you stop that, please." The words had no anger or stress, but they compelled obedience. Madeleine was worried then. She knew that giving up Christine had torn the heart out of him, however much he tried to hide that from himself and from her. But surely it could not have torn the music out of him? If that were so, what reason would he have to go on living?

When darkness veiled the world outside, he went out on an errand. Returning after a short while, he seemed satisfied.

"I have put matters in train. There is an apartment which I rent, as a safe retreat. It has been empty for a while, but I have sent Jacques to open it and provision it. This time tomorrow, we can remove there, and be a little less confined than here. I shall make one more trip to my house by the lake, to collect a few things. If there is anything in your room which you want, I shall get that too, but remember that I have enough money to replace what is left behind, so we need not be burdened with commonplace possessions. Once we go, I do not expect to return here, at least not for a long time."

"It is almost magical, the way you arrange matters. People appear, and do your bidding. You conjure homes out of nowhere."

"Ah, but the magic wand is money. Money is power. When I journeyed in the East, I… invented toys for people. Expensive toys, for powerful people." He paused. "Sometimes, unpleasant toys, for unpleasant people. But I was always well paid, and I wasted none of it. When I came back to France, I lodged my money in banks, in safe investments, some in cash, hidden here and there. And I have added to my fortune since then. I can buy what I need, I can hire people to run my errands. I can threaten my agents with dire retribution if they betray me. But there are times when it would be useful to have someone more trustworthy to conduct business on my behalf. This is what I had in mind for you. We could get you a stylish walking-dress and accoutrements, present you as a lady of a well-to-do family; perhaps wife or daughter to a banker, a doctor, something of that sort. I would hire a maid – no, better, a footman – to escort you and be your eyes. For transactions which must be done in daylight, face-to-face, you could represent me. Would you do that?"

"Gladly, to the best of my ability. Remember that I have little experience of business matters."

"Yes. I have no specific tasks in mind for now, but I can recall occasions when someone like you could have been very useful. We shall see what transpires."

O-O-O O-O-O


	11. 11: Another Beginning

11: Another Beginning

The shop sold mainly clocks, with some other decorative objects; vases, glass sculptures and the like. It was elegant without being over-stated. One afternoon, the manager called his recently-appointed assistant to the office.

"Mademoiselle Duval has an appointment today. You will find her… interesting."

"Does she buy, or sell?" asked the assistant.

"Sells. Her brother makes automata, excellent ones, but he rarely comes here himself. She does business for him. The horse-race set on display was made by him."

"Intriguing. However many times the horses race, I can never anticipate which will win."

"Yes. Amusing, beautiful, and exclusive. That is why his pieces sell for thousands of francs."

The lady was prompt to her time. She was neatly dressed in a gown of wine-red, and decorously escorted by a footman in tailcoat and knee breeches. But the assistant was startled to see a band of the same wine-red fabric across her eyes. She rested one hand lightly on the sleeve of the footman; when he guided her to a chair, she felt for it and seated herself with the accustomed ease of the long-blind. She greeted the manager by name, and was introduced to his assistant. The footman stood attentively behind her chair.

"Well, Mademoiselle, you have something for us today?"

"Certainly. What do you think of this?" From a basket on her arm, she produced a decorated box, about the size of a tea caddy, rich with inlaid woods and precious metals. Checking with her hand that the desk before her had clear space, she put the box there, slid a key into the base and wound the clockwork mechanism. Then she turned a knob on the top, and sat back.

The top and sides of the box folded back, revealing a little golden bird-cage, apparently empty. But a tiny, jewelled head peeped out of a nest-box in the corner. With a cheep, the bird moved out on to its perch, flipped wings and tail, then opened its beak and poured out a sweet trill. It sang for a short time, then its voice grew weaker, and died away. The bird moved again, to a water-bowl, dipped its head and appeared to drink. Moving back to its perch it sang again, the full, joyful song of a soaring lark. As it sang, miniature flowers, sparkling with jewels, grew out of the floor of the cage. Finally, the last liquid notes died away, and the bird slid back into its box.

"Charming!" exclaimed the manager.

"When you close the outer case," explained the lady, "the flowers withdraw into the base, ready for the next time. My brother says that this is somewhat less complicated than the horse-race, and it is priced accordingly, at three thousand francs."

The assistant expected some haggling, but the price was accepted immediately. He was rather distracted because he had just noticed a birthmark staining the skin of the lady's forehead and temple, almost the same colour as the eye-band, and somewhat disguised by it. A cheque was brought, and a receipt prepared. The footman looked at the papers, and murmured, "Correct, Mademoiselle." The manager dipped a pen in the inkwell and placed it in the lady's hand, using a finger of his other hand to indicate the space where her signature was required. She wrote her name, rather untidily, and the manager blotted it. Business concluded, farewells were said and the lady departed with her attendant.

"Interesting indeed," remarked the assistant to the manager. "Blind… and also birthmarked. Unfortunate."

"The misfortune runs in the family. I met the brother once. He can see, although there is something strange about his eyes, but he is also birthmarked, much worse. He wears a beard to hide some of it. But why should we care what he looks like, when he can produce such exquisite work? We shall put it on display tomorrow, and the price is five thousand francs. Oh, and if you ever deal with her, do not try to haggle. They set fair prices, and we do not want to lose them to another shop."

O-O-O

Madeleine paid the cheque into the bank, then had the footman guide her to two or three shops for various errands, finishing at a café where they shared a pot of coffee and a few pastries. She always made a point of chatting to shop girls and waitresses, whenever they had time, and to her hired escort. Without ever giving away much about herself, she enticed people to talk to her, and thus kept abreast of current gossip in the city. In this way, she had heard many different versions of those dramatic events at the Opera House, when the legendary Phantom had appeared and then vanished, as had the leading soprano. And how the lady had apparently been rescued by the resourceful Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. Madeleine had suppressed the irritation which she felt on Erik's behalf, at the implication that he had been defeated by the young man who in reality was no match for him. But she had been startled to find that Christine's Raoul bore a title. What was his real interest in Christine? Madeleine had heard him speak of his love for the singer. True, it was commonplace for noblemen to form alliances with stage performers, but Madeleine had never thought that Christine wished for such an alliance. And scions of noble families did not marry opera singers.

Madeleine could hardly believe that Christine would sell her virtue for worldly advantage. Might she give it up for love? That, perhaps, was possible. Madeleine wished Christine well, but mainly she wished for her never again to cross Erik's path. Let Christine find a life which would make her happy, if that was possible, but let her do nothing to rake over the coals of Erik's love for her.

Ending her unprofitable musings, Madeleine went home to the apartment. At the door, she thanked and dismissed the footman, who was engaged by the day whenever she needed escort. The agency paid his wages, but she gave him a generous tip. He was used to her needs, and served her well.

When Erik and Madeleine had moved from the Opera House to the apartment, after some discussion they decided to pose as brother and sister. Erik accepted Madeleine's suggestion that a combination of beard and birthmark could disguise his face, without reminding people of the Phantom. It was Madeleine's idea that she wear a birthmark too, to imply that it was a family trait. Whenever she needed to go out, he would carefully paint a mark on her face with a skin-dye which looked real, and would survive the occasional shower of rain. Repeated washing would eventually remove it, or it could be cleaned off with a spirit rub.

There was a workroom where Erik kept an assortment of tools for fine metalwork. He enjoyed the challenge of making the little mechanical toys, and he accepted the money as a measure of the worth of his work. His automata made natural sounds like birdsong, hoofbeats or ocean waves, but none of them had included a more conventional musical box. There was a piano in the living room, but to Madeleine's sorrow, it was kept locked. Not that she minded for herself, but Erik without music was like a bird with clipped wings. 'Controlled,' she had thought him, when they first met. But this was control gone mad, the difference between a tree growing naturally straight and one twisted to contorted shapes by the gardener's artifice. She wished he could choose to release the control; if it ever snapped, she feared for the consequences.

Madeleine changed out of the wine-red costume and into a plain house dress, brushing and sponging the more elaborate outfit before putting it away. Erik would have let her buy a more expensive wardrobe if she wished, but she had little interest in such things, and she could tell by his tone that he did not much mind what she wore. She had two or three formal outfits for those days when she conducted business, but at home it pleased her better to dress simply.

They employed a charwoman now, who came in the mornings to do the heavier cleaning, but Madeleine continued to look after clothes for herself and Erik. She needed some employment, preferably one that would let her hands stay a ladylike white, not stained by coal or black-lead. The charwoman had once been allowed to see Erik in his full disguise of false beard, wig, spectacles and birthmark. He then told her that, to hide the unpleasant sight, he would wear a full-face hooded mask when she came. That spared him the task of donning his disguise every day, and the same method was used when delivery men brought provisions to the apartment.

After Madeleine had changed and removed the mark from her face, she went through to the living room and took up an unfinished rug which she was making. Half an hour later, Erik came in from his workroom and greeted her. "Did Chemas like the song bird?"

"Of course. I think the little flowers appealed to him, too."

"I was thinking of a garden scene, which would start in spring, then progress through summer, autumn and winter. Or perhaps summer to summer."

"Ending in winter would make it feel right to close the box. Perhaps for summer, the flowers could exude perfume."

"Yes, that would be effective. But it would need some movement. A bird, an animal, perhaps flowing water. I shall give it thought."

Their lives were pleasant. Madeleine had her handicrafts, Erik his workroom. When they chose to spend time together, it was companionable, undemanding. Once, she made a passing, regretful comment about some Braille books which she had had when she lived with her mother. Such books were expensive, but Erik immediately asked what she would like, and bought everything on her modest list. He also provided the slate-and-stylus which let her write Braille on plain paper, and asked her to teach him the system, so that they could write to one another if the need arose. Madeleine enjoyed being teacher instead of pupil, but was awe-struck by the speed with which he learned.

But Madeleine had lurking worries. Erik sometimes had visitors, men who came after dark, and had long discussions with him, from which Madeleine was excluded. There were times when he went out at night, on errands that he never discussed. She suspected that he was in contact with the city's criminal fraternity, and she wondered what schemes he might be involved with. "Money is power," he had once told her, and although he seemed to be rich, perhaps he always felt the need for more, to increase his power or even his safety.

O-O-O

It was after midnight. Madeleine had gone to bed long ago, but Erik was alert, on the watch for a visitor. At the sound of a soft scratching on the apartment door, he pulled on his hooded mask, unlocked the door and waved the man to the living room. Tollmache was an old acquaintance, and Erik knew how to put him at ease so that he would be talkative. He had a decanter of good cognac ready, and poured generously for his visitor. Unobtrusively he poured a much smaller serving for himself, topping it up with water. Tollmache seated himself and lit the first of his habitual cigarettes. Erik disliked tobacco smoke, having no wish to pollute his throat and voice, but he would tolerate it when he had reason. The window was already open. Leaving the living room door open for ventilation, Erik sat down several feet away from Tollmache, to avoid his smoke.

"You look like a man with news," Erik began. "The last business you brought my way proved successful. What do you have for me this time?"

"An offer of employment." From an envelope, the man produced a photograph and a paper with some written details, laying them on a table. "My principal wants this man dead. It should look like an accident. The contract is worth fifty thousand francs."

Erik studied the paper. "There seems to be enough information here for me to find him. But your principal is not over-generous for a capital crime. I used to earn more than… no matter. And then, 'accidents' can be complicated to arrange. Why not a simple throttling? Take the wallet and the watch, then the death will be attributed to some petty thief. When watch and wallet are at the bottom of the Seine, the 'thief' will never be traced. Job done."

Tollmache nodded. "I understand."

Erik refilled Tollmache's glass, then took some cash from a desk drawer and gave it to him. "Your fee for bringing the message. Now, if that is all your business, we have time for a little conversation. That financial double-dealing you were involved with – how did that progress? You did some smart work there."

It was too easy. A little flattery, some encouraging comments, liberal drink. The man chattered freely. Erik led him gently from one subject to another, and soon gathered enough to guess who the principal was who had sent this evening's message. That was useful information.

Erik had been known for years to the criminals of Paris as "the Masked Man," who appeared from time to time, and then vanished mysteriously. He had never let that identity be linked to the Phantom of the Opera. The Masked Man was clever and ruthless, open to any kind of profitable venture, but an independent operator, no threat to underworld empire-builders. He appeared to believe in the "honour amongst thieves" ethic, and had never been known to betray a collaborator. The key word in that sentence, mused Erik, was "known." If two went into a venture, and circumstances changed so that only one could escape… well, accidents were not so difficult to arrange as he had claimed.

At length, Tollmache drained his brandy, put down the glass and gathered up photograph and paper. "It's getting late. In summary, then, I shall tell my principal that you do not like the price, or the method. If he is open to negotiation on these points, no doubt he will send me back for further discussion."

"No doubt." Erik saw him out, and locked the door. As he turned back towards the living room, he saw Madeleine standing in the hall, wrapped in a dressing gown, barefoot, her face white.

"What? Were you listening? You should have been asleep – "

"I could not sleep tonight. I sat up for a while, doing some crochet. You left the living room door open, and you were speaking aloud! How could I help but hear? Do you think I'm deaf as well as blind?! No, you don't think of me at all! I'm just wallpaper to you, forgotten unless I'm in front of your eyes. You've never even noticed that I get insomnia, because I cannot tell day from night."

"All right! You heard what was not meant for you, and it has upset you. Go back to your room, and just forget it."

" _Forget it!_ Forget that I heard you planning how to kill a man you don't even know, for money!"

"What of it? You know I am no saint. No one is perfect – you said that yourself."

"Not perfect…" Words seemed to fail her, and she paused for breath. "My God, what a fool I've been. I knew things… but I made excuses for you. You'd had a hard life, been treated unfairly, you had to defend yourself, you never learned the meaning of justice. Even Fonta… even that, I tried to forget. You had reason for killing him, reason that seemed good to you, even if I could not agree. I just closed my eyes to it, made myself blinder than nature made me. But I cannot be blind to this. You don't need the money. I pay your cheques into the bank, I know what you have. And I am sure you have more, that I don't know about. You'd never tell anyone all your secrets. This is greed, not need, and for greed you contemplate murdering someone who never harmed you. I never knew… I never allowed myself to know… just what scum you are.

"Well, now I know. Now I don't even want to breathe the same air as you. To eat your bread would choke me. To touch your money would soil me. I'm leaving. There's a woman I knew, a long time ago. I'll find her. She runs a brothel. I expect she can find a use for a blind whore, for men who don't want their faces seen. I'll earn my living that way, and feel cleaner than if I stayed with you." Turning away, she ran to her room and slammed the door behind her.

Erik had not moved during her tirade. Now he went slowly back to the living room and sat down. Foolish woman! Women were all the same, making a fuss over nothing. He had thought Madeleine was more sensible than most, but it appeared that he was wrong.

Yes, true, he had forgotten her existence while discussing business with Tollmache. Did that offend her? Did she not understand what a measure that was of his trust in her? Usually he was keenly aware of every person near him, because anyone might prove a threat. But not her. She was no threat.

And then… all that anger. He had never seen her angry before. Sad, perhaps, sometimes, or grieved. But mostly she took life calmly. He understood that. She had had a difficult life. To be born a bastard was to be condemned by many people. Added to that, she was maimed by her blindness, disfigured by the blank eyes which some people saw as ugly. She had learned to live with difficulties, to move on from problems, to tolerate what she could not change. Erik thought back over the time they had spent together, especially in the Opera House days. She had had to tolerate a great deal from him, his short temper, his changeable moods. She took it all so quietly. She had been shocked at his casual mention of killing Fonta, but even that she had been able to accept. How much more did she know about his past? What thoughtless remarks might he have made, that she could have understood? Madeleine was no fool, even if he had thought her foolish a moment ago.

But clearly the idea of him as a hired killer crossed the boundary of her tolerance. Murder as a business was different from murdering to survive. Well, he had not really wanted to take on the job. He would certainly turn it down, if by doing so he could keep Madeleine here. For he was used to her now, and did not want her to leave. Who would run his errands for him? He had better try to put things right with her.

Rising to his feet, Erik glanced at the discoloured mark on the wall above the fireplace, where he had removed the mirror. He smiled wryly. With Madeleine around to show him to himself, there was little point in avoiding looking-glasses. He went to her door and knocked gently. There was no reply, but he could hear crying. He entered the room to find her lying on her bed, trying to muffle her sobs in the pillow. The room, of course, was unlit, but he left the door open, and the gaslight from the hall mitigated the darkness. He sat on a chair by the bed, rose abruptly to remove the crochet-work and hooks from the seat, and sat down again.

"Madeleine, I owe you an apology. That conversation was not meant for your ears, and it was careless of me to allow you to hear it and become upset by it. Please listen to me now.

"It is true that I have no pressing need for immediate funds. However, I suppose it has become a habit with me, to look for opportunities. I have a history of demanding money from the rich, with threats of disaster if I am not paid. The word is extortion. An ugly word, but then…" He shrugged. "Those men who come here are messengers, nothing more, contacts who gather information for me. I have… an understanding with the criminal elements in Paris. Twice recently I have discovered things about professional criminals – one a thief, one a hired assassin, both outsiders seeking to get rich in Paris. I gave them a simple choice; pay me, and I would hand the evidence back to them, or refuse, and see it laid with the police. They paid, and they left town. I profited, and the local fraternity were free from disturbance of their equilibrium.

"That message tonight – that was unexpected. I do not seek that kind of work. In the past, in the East… things were different. Yes, I killed. I always knew who I was killing, and why. I knew how it would profit me and improve my status, make me feared, make me safer. I have never killed a complete stranger at someone else's behest, and since I returned to Paris, I have not killed for pay. Since… since Fonta… I have not killed at all."

Madeleine's sobs had ceased and she lay very still, her face pressed into the pillow. Then she groped with one hand towards the bedside table. Guessing her need, Erik picked up the handkerchief which lay there and pressed it into her hand. Would she accept what he had said? Surely she could not really want to leave and go into a brothel. But he had clearly pushed her too far, and now he had to offer her a way back.

"Madeleine, you know now, as I think you had already guessed, that more men than Fonta have died at my hands. But always for my own reasons, whether or not you would consider those reasons to be justified. I do not have your sense of right and wrong. If I ever did, it was burned out of me at an early age. But I do have pride. Too much pride to sell myself as a weapon to another, just to save him from getting his own hands dirty. I am not to be hired like a tradesman.

"Did you believe me when I was haggling terms with Tollmache? I only wanted to get him talking freely, to find out what he knew. If you listened to the rest of the conversation, surely you realised what I was doing? I made him feel clever, when he is really rather simple. You _are_ clever, you must have understood that."

Madeleine sat up. She was no longer crying, although her face was blotched red and her voice thick. "Yes. You flattered him to manipulate him. And now you flatter me. What am I to make of that?"

Erik groaned, and murmured, "Caught in my own trap." He drew a breath. "Yes, when I suggested to Tollmache that he was clever, that was a lie to make him feel pleased with himself. When I call you clever, that is unvarnished truth. You prove it by understanding me, while he did not. But I have known it for a long time. Madeleine, you once pointed out to me the contrast between actions which are merely illegal, and those which are unjust. I remember that. If I scarcely know right from wrong, at least I can recognise the difference when you show me. If it gives you any comfort, since that day I have avoided perpetrating injustice. Now, you said a few minutes ago that you wanted to leave me. I hope I have told you enough to persuade you to change your mind. I do not want you to go."

"Do you not? Even after… after all the things I said to you?"

"Why? Do you think your words insulted me? Ha! Dear girl, if you want to insult me, you will have to do better – or worse – than that. With my lifetime's experience of venom and abuse, my skin has grown thick. You do not have the malice in you to pierce my armour. Come now. If you feel a little better, go and wash your face, then come to the living room… No, the kitchen. We need to let Tollmache's smoke clear from the living room. Have a glass of wine with me. I shall read to you for a while, then perhaps you will be able to sleep, and things will look fresher in the morning."

O-O-O O-O-O


	12. 12: Haunted

12: Haunted

After that, no more was said about her leaving, and their lives resumed the normal pattern. Some time later, on one of her days for attending to business, Madeleine and her escort had finished the errands, and stopped at a café for a glass of wine. It was a pleasant, sunny autumn day, but suddenly for Madeleine it turned chill. An overheard conversation informed her that, this very day, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé was being married to Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. Married. So Raoul would overstep the rules of society after all. And Christine would be irrevocably bound to him. What would this news do to Erik?

The footman, concerned at her sudden pallor, asked if she were quite well. She admitted to a little faintness, and he escorted her home. A delivery boy arrived at the same time with a box of supplies from the shop, and the footman brought it inside before leaving her. Madeleine tried to absorb herself in her knitting, dreading her next encounter with Erik. But a little later, she heard his wordless moan of pain from the workroom. The newspaper! – the story must have been printed there. She made her way into the hall, where he met her. "You knew?" he asked her sharply.

"I heard, on the street."

"And you did not tell me?"

"Why should I be the one to cause you pain? You were bound to find out. And… you knew this must happen, when you gave her her freedom. This hurts you because you love her, but, loving her, you had to free her…"

"Stop trying to be reasonable, damn you! This is not about reason. It is... it is…" His words faded, became broken. "Love is not reasonable… reason… if we could reason… could reason… we would never love… But I love…"

Madeleine caught a choked sob in his voice. Reaching out tentatively, her hand found his bowed shoulder, and she realised that he had turned from her and was leaning on the wall. An abrupt movement, a loud thud… His fist? On the wall? And again…

"Don't!" she cried. "You'll hurt yourself!" Groping in her darkness, she managed to seize his wrist. He struck at the wall once more, but with less force this time, because of her restraint, and because the blow landed partly on her hand.

"What… what are you doing?" he mumbled. "Foolish… to get in my way… get hurt…"

He took her bruised hand and rubbed it gently. "I did not mean to… to hurt you. But…" He gripped her hand harder. "Where is the ring? I gave you the ring. Where is it…?"

Madeleine was bewildered. She knew that he wore a ring, for she had often felt its touch, but he had never given one to her. He had bought her a necklace and brooch to wear with her formal clothes, but no ring.

He dropped her hand. "You should not… get in my way. Fonta got in my way… and died. Everyone dies… I should die…" With a low moan, he sank to his knees.

Madeleine knelt beside him and wrapped her arm around his shaking back, for whatever comfort that might give him. She tried to catch his fragmented words, spoken not to her but to himself.

"Christine… Christine… You cannot betray me… cannot kill me. I gave you everything. No, this cannot be true… You know you are mine… you will come back to me… we belong together…"

Suddenly he stood, pulling Madeleine to her feet and into his arms. "Mine… Christine, you are mine…" But then he released her. "What am I saying…? You are… you are Madeleine. But you met Christine. You know her… her angel voice, her kindness, her beauty… No, of course you cannot know her beauty…"

Madeleine had felt a sudden fear when he spoke to her as though she were Christine. Was he losing his mind? Losing his grasp on reality? She must not argue with him. Perhaps, if she agreed, it would steady him. "I could not see her beauty," she replied. "But I knew her angel voice, her kindness."

"Yes, yes. Christine, my angel. Too kind to break my heart. Too kind to refuse my love. My Christine loves me. You love me, you have come home to Erik." He took her hand again. "I remember now, you gave the ring back to me. But this time… this time you will accept it… accept Erik…" Madeleine felt him slip his ring on to her finger, then his arm went round her shoulders, holding her to his side. "Nothing could keep you from me… not even my face… This hideous face, a weapon that Erik uses against his enemies. I never meant you to see it, you of all people… but you looked. And it did not kill you… did not drive you mad… You learned to look upon Erik without fear… So strong you are, so brave, so loving…"

For a moment, Madeleine held her breath. His delusion was growing stronger. She was a woman, she was near him, she permitted his touch. To him, she could only be Christine. She must decide instantly, should she try to make him see the truth… or participate in his fantasy? Which might heal, which might shatter his mind?

Then she knew what she would do, right or wrong. Erik wanted love – and so did Madeleine. She would share this sweet dream with him, and hope that it led to no nightmare. Leaning against him, she let her arm encircle his waist. She scarcely dared speak, lest her voice break the illusion, but softly she sighed, "Home… to you."

He moved forward then, guiding her steps… to his bedroom, she realised. Of course. Today was Christine's wedding day. He would act it out the way he wanted it to happen. Madeleine let him seat her on the side of his bed. He stroked her coiled hair, and pulled the pins from it until it tumbled loose, the silky cascade falling across her shoulders and her back. Then he began unfastening her clothes. He seemed to want no help or comment from her, so she remained silent, passive, letting his hands turn her this way and that. Patiently he completed the task, then she heard the sounds of him shedding his own garments.

"No barriers," she heard him whisper. "No mask. No deception."

Her mind formed an answer, one that could not be spoken. _Erik, you deceive yourself, and I am helping you. You thirst for a wine you cannot have, but I can only offer you water. I pray it will quench your thirst._

His breathing, though, grew louder, his voice harsher. "But you deceived me, Christine. You pretended to want that stupid boy. Erik watched you kiss him! _Why?_ Why taunt Erik with him?"

"I'm sorry… I was wrong," murmured Madeleine, hoping to soothe his jealous agitation. "Please forgive me, Erik… I am yours, only yours."

"Then prove it!" Roughly, he pushed her down on the bed, threw himself beside her and pulled her close to him. Madeleine felt the evidence of his passion, and made herself relax in his grip. She had not foreseen his anger, but she had chosen this course, and must see it through.

His cool hands roamed over her body, exploring, not caressing, but all the same she welcomed his touch, the touch which she had long craved. This was not the romantic embrace of her dreams, but it was what he needed, and she gave herself willingly. He had neither the skill nor the inclination to arouse her, but she had expected that, and did not wish for the impossible. She too must make do with water instead of wine. As his lean, strong body pressed on hers, she encircled him with her arms. But he withdrew a little, and with resignation she released the embrace and lay still for him. What image was in his mind? A virginal Christine, a modest girl who would only submit, not enjoy?

Whatever his thoughts, his body flushed warmly now, his phallus erect and powerful, stabbing into her with lust and something of desperation. It was a swift, fierce mating, a blaze of emotion for him, patient acceptance for her. When it was over, he turned away from her, curling himself into a tight ball. For a few minutes there was only his harsh breathing, then he began to sob, like a heartbroken child, without dignity or restraint. Madeleine pulled the covers over both of them and waited for his grief to subside. Finally he grew quiet, although she knew that he was not asleep. She slipped to the bathroom, came back with sponge and towel, and tenderly wiped his face clean and dry. By the time she had done, she was growing cold, for she had not stopped to dress. Erik took her hand gently, drew her down beside him, and covered her.

"Madeleine?" He voiced her name softly, questioning. "Dear God, Madeleine, what have I done? What happened… felt like a dream. But it was no dream, and yet not real. I used you… to give my dream substance. You, who have always been here for me… And in my madness I have treated you as badly as… as those men who first drove you to take shelter with me."

"No." She thought for a moment. "No, you are not like them. They laughed at my pain. You were never cruel, even in your passion. And with them, I was helpless. With you… Erik, I could have stopped you, with a word."

"I believe… yes, I believe you could have. Had you protested, struggled… the dream would have shattered. Yes, Madeleine, you could have stopped me with a word. Why, then, was that word not spoken?"

She sighed. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Oh, my cautious little friend, who fears dangerous questions, who once said that questioning was like seeking to learn about fire by putting your hand into it. I would like you to explain, and I do not believe the answer will burn me."

"Very well. I did not stop you because I wanted this union. I love you, Erik. Have loved you, and desired you, for a long time."

He drew a long breath, but was slow to reply. "Burned, after all. That… was not the answer I expected."

"You did not realise I love you? I thought I was the blind one… Understand, I do not expect you to return my love. I know your heart is given elsewhere. But what answer did you expect?"

"Oh… something about my pain, and your pity for my weakness."

"I have never thought you weak, but I understand your pain, a little. We both love, without being loved in return. But I am more fortunate than you. I can be near you, can be useful to you. I can count you as my friend."

"Yes… yes, we are friends, Madeleine, and I value that friendship. But if we are to stay friends, then what we have shared today… cannot continue. We cannot live as lovers. That would be a lie, on my part if not yours, and I do not wish to poison our friendship with lies."

"I understand. If you prefer, we can pretend that this never happened. Only – do not ask me to forget."

"No. And how could I forget that you saved my sanity, perhaps my life? For the deceiving dream is over now, the dream that held my mind in chains. From tomorrow, you and I return to what we were before. But… on this one day, in this one place… may I make you a gift, in return for the gift you have given me?" He touched her shoulder, then softly ran his hand down her side, to her waist. "This time for your pleasure, as well as mine? If it would please you?"

For a moment, Madeleine's breath paused. Then she whispered, "Yes… it would…"

He continued to stroke her, not intrusively, shoulders, waist, the outside of her thighs. Then he bent his head to kiss her, which he had not done before. She felt his hesitation and divined the cause, his self-consciousness about his odd mouth. Taking his head in her hands, she drew him more firmly into the kiss, then let her hands cradle his face. Again she felt his slight withdrawal. "Don't hold back," she murmured. "Remember that I have touched you… touched all of you." She kissed his cheeks, then his lips again. "This is who you are, the man I desire."

"Oh, sweet Madeleine. You deserve better. But if this is what you want…"

"What must I do to prove it to you?" She smiled, sliding one hand down his chest, and on down… stopping just as her fingers reached the crisp hair. "This…?"

"Ah… Perhaps not yet." Raising himself a little, he stroked her breast, his fingers circling the nipple until it hardened. Seeing the pleasure on her face, he stooped his mouth to the other nipple and stimulated that, too, until her breath came in short gasps.

He paused to let them both catch breath. "You said – before – that I was not cruel. But I know I was selfish, satisfying only my own need. Now it would please me to satisfy yours, but I must learn how to do that."

"You have made a good start," she murmured with reckless honesty, and he smiled. "Erik – do you remember the day you massaged my back?"

"I remember very well. You relaxed under my hands. That pleased me, because it showed trust."

"I may have shown trust, but I was doing my best to hide lust! I loved the touch of your hands, and I wanted so much for them to do more, to go further…"

"Really? I didn't know. Perhaps…" Taking hold of her, he easily turned her over. He gathered her rumpled hair into a bundle which he put over her shoulder, pausing a moment to run his hands through it. Then his hands swept long, soothing strokes down her back, before moving to her neck and shoulders where they pressed more insistently. "Like that?"

"Mmm… yes, that mix of gentleness and strength. It's wonderful."

"The angle is a little awkward… is this comfortable for you?" He knelt across her and sat himself on the back of her thighs.

"Yes, very. I like to feel you."

With a straighter reach now, he stroked her back again, deep pushes into the big muscles and tendons, soft feather-touches to neck and waist. He began sliding his hands around, near to her breasts, stomach, loins, each time withdrawing again teasingly, until finally he cupped her breasts. She squirmed with pleasure, and his own body responded strongly. Any doubts he might have had about his ability to perform a second time were allayed. But this was for her, and he would be patient until she was ready. He leaned forward, his chest to her back, nuzzling her neck with his lips and rubbing his face into her hair. Madeleine reached back and stroked his flanks, but it stretched her arms uncomfortably. He slid off her and stroked all the way down her back, over buttocks and thighs, then very gently slid a finger between her legs. She had cleaned herself from the first time, and this new wetness he felt was all from her, not from him. He smelled his fingers and was further aroused, but she had tensed a little. He knew that she would allow his touch, as she had so recently, but she was not yet ready to welcome it.

Erik rolled her to face him and kissed her again, then let his lips rove around her body. Throat, shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs… She made small sounds of delight, touching and stroking whatever part of him she could reach. She pulled him against her, chest to chest, belly to belly, wriggling to savour all the touches. Erik tried to steady his breathing, grown suddenly intense, but she heard and released him.

"Sorry… I shouldn't tease," she apologised.

"This is for you, remember? Whatever you want is right."

"Well then… there is something I have heard about…" She pulled his head to her, and kissed him again. To his surprise, he felt her tongue entering his mouth, a beautiful intimacy. He responded in kind, until they had to break apart, panting. Then Madeleine took his hand and guided it to her groin. He began stroking her, at first softly, but soon she pressed his fingers more firmly against her, and he gave her the harder probing that she wanted. Her breath was coming fast now, soft moans with each exhalation. Erik concentrated on what his fingers were doing. Like learning to play an instrument, he thought whimsically. He had always been quick to do that. Almost unconsciously he began to sing, wordless music, vocalising that lilting melody which he had written for her, which had moved her so much. It moved her now. She arched up into his touch, pressing herself to his hand, then gave a cry as her body began to jerk. Finally she heaved a long sigh, and sank back down, spent.

Erik smiled to himself. As applause, that was quite spectacular… even if it did mean a change in his plans. His body was fully ready for an action which would not now be called for. Ah well, a small disappointment in an otherwise satisfactory occasion. He had learned restraint ever since he was old enough to know desire. There would be time alone, later. He gathered her into his arms and tenderly caressed her. Madeleine whispered thanks, and placed small kisses along his shoulder and collar bone. They lay entwined for a few minutes, and he thought that she would sleep, but she did not. Her touches and kisses grew more positive, and he responded.

"I thought I had satisfied you," he murmured into her hair, between kisses.

"Not so easily," she replied with a breathless chuckle. "The overture was wonderful… but now I await the performance."

"Then you shall have it." His mouth tracked all down her body, and she opened her secret places to him. The taste of her almost drove him frantic, and he could wait no longer. Kneeling up, his strong hands pushed her knees further apart, and he lowered himself to her. Just in time, he recovered enough control to make his entry slow and gentle. She was warm and slick, welcoming him, unlike his first hasty possession of her. He thrust, and her hands on his hips urged him on. Harder… faster… this took longer than the first time, and was so, so much better. Both of them in accord, bodies and minds, sharing the ecstasy. He had learned now what orgasm looked like in Madeleine, and he watched her face, holding himself back until the time was right for both of them to let go. Together, they soared to new heights.

They separated, and slumped back on the pillows, totally relaxed. Erik slid a hand to the back of Madeleine's neck, and his fingers began a clever, soothing manipulation. In a short time, she was deeply asleep.

O-O-O

When Madeleine woke, it was to hear a sound of such beauty that she wept for joy. Erik was playing the piano.

With a sigh, she shook herself properly awake. His gift to her was over, and it was time to return to real life. She did not know the piece he was playing, but it was slow and rather sad, not a celebration for Madeleine but a mourning for Christine. Madeleine regretted that, but understood. He had lost his deceiving dream, the vain hope that Christine would change her mind and return to him. With Christine's marriage, that dream was laid to rest forever. Madeleine had given the dream a brief reality, given him a short respite from his grief, but a broken heart takes longer to heal. It was good that he had found his way back to his music.

She rose and collected her clothes from where he had dropped them. Finding the scattered hairpins from bedding and floor took longer, but she counted them until she had them all, then gathered everything up and returned to her room. Once she was dressed and tidied, she went back to his bedroom and made up the bed afresh, leaving no trace of their encounter. He wanted them to return to their previous relationship, and she would do her best. With a sigh, she slipped his ring from her finger and left it on his bedside table. It had been a short-lived marriage, but better than none.

At length she moved into the living room. He did not stop playing, but she knew that he had heard her steps as she went to the sofa and quietly took up some crochet. Eventually the sonata came to an end, and there was silence.

When she was sure that he was not about to start playing again, Madeleine remarked conversationally, "I spoke to Monsieur Chemas at the shop. He sold the horse race set weeks ago, but he has had many enquiries from people wanting one like it. He knows you do not repeat your work, but wondered if you would consider making the same mechanism with different figures. He suggested racing dogs, greyhounds. I thought perhaps something more whimsical, monkeys riding gazelles, or fairies mounted on small animals."

She could sense his almost tangible relief that she was willing to act as though the afternoon's events had not happened.

"Yes, that might be worthwhile. The fairies… that should be done as an amusement for children, very colourful and sparkling. Interesting idea." He paused, then went on, "The butcher sent us steaks for tonight. Shall I cook them?" Frying meat was something which Madeleine found difficult.

"Thank you, yes. I'll go and start preparing the vegetables."

Their relationship was back to normal, not lovers but closer than master and servant. They were friends.

O-O-O

When Erik went to his bedroom late that evening, he was pleased to find that Madeleine had tidied the room. He could trust her to be efficient… very efficient, he realised, as he retrieved his ring. She understood that it was not hers, only borrowed, and she had returned it without being asked. As it lay in his palm, he studied its subtle, elegant shape, its gleaming black stone. Chosen when he first became the Phantom of the Opera, merely to complete his ensemble, somehow it had come to mean more to him. Christine had returned the ring when she rejected him. Madeleine… why did he get no sense of rejection from Madeleine? She was so modest, so self-effacing. She gave it back, surely, because she felt that she had no right to it. For some reason he hesitated for a moment before putting the ring back on his own finger, then decisively completed the movement.

Madeleine had said that she loved him. A strange thing to say, for of course it was not true. No one could love Erik. Probably she wanted to make him feel better about what had just happened. Yes, that was it. She had always been grateful to him for giving her a home and honest work. Since she had been conducting business on his behalf, she had proved very loyal to him and to all his concerns. Gratitude, loyalty – those were reasons enough for her to have helped him when he needed help.

Still, he should show her some appreciation for what she had done. Briefly he considered an expensive gift of some kind, then dismissed the idea. That might make her feel like a whore receiving payment, and that was not how he thought of her. No, he would give her something of himself. He would resume her piano lessons, if she wanted, now that he had unlocked the piano… unlocked the music in his soul. New compositions were beginning to bubble up in his mind. He smiled wryly. With no Opera House to escape into, it would be an interesting challenge for him to sit quietly, mentally shaping new melodies, while Madeleine spent her practice hour plunking away on the keyboard with her schoolgirl exercises. But she was improving – or at least, she had been before… before music had ceased for both of them, when…

No, put away thoughts of the past. Think about today. He was a little embarrassed about his mind wandering like that, but it had happened before, that dreams became more real than reality to him. That illusory consummation with an illusory Christine had been so much more vivid than his solitary dreams in the past. But when he came to himself… when he touched Madeleine the second time… ah, that was different. He had exerted himself to please her, and there was pride in recalling how well he had succeeded. He had read that sometimes women would pretend to more enjoyment than they really felt. But there was no pretence in the warm flush that had suffused her skin, nor in the deep sleep that had come to her soon afterwards. Yes, he had pleased her, and his own pleasure had astonished him with its intensity.

Of course, he had no plans to repeat the experience… had he? No, perhaps that was just as well. Another time might be a disappointment. Or, if it became a habit, the feelings might come to be commonplace. He would cherish the occasion as a delightful memory. That was enough. He hoped that Madeleine would also find the recollection agreeable.

O-O-O

As Madeleine settled herself in her own bed that night, she hugged a pillow, remembering the touch of his body on hers. The memories were sweet indeed, sweet as wine. And in her heart, a secret hope had taken root.

O-O-O O-O-O


	13. 13: Fresh Surroundings

13: Fresh Surroundings

In the aftermath of that momentous day, their lives could not feel quite as they did before. Soon it became clear that both were inclined for change, and they moved out of the apartment and out of the city, taking a small house on the outskirts of Capelle, a market town some miles outside Paris. The house was surrounded by walls and trees, with a secluded garden, rather overgrown.

As before, they employed a servant to come in for a few hours daily, but when she had gone, Erik and Madeleine had house and garden to themselves. It was a novelty to be able to stroll in the open air, unobserved and unafraid, or to sit at peace on the veranda when the weather was kind. From somewhere in the neighbourhood a cat moved in, and liked them enough to stay, happy to trade purrs for a lap to sit on, a stroking hand. Madeleine wondered if Erik would grow bored with this sedate existence, but it seemed that, after a life of tension and strain, the opportunity to relax was a luxury which did not pall.

Erik returned to his music, composing now for pay, accepting commissions via an agent. There was demand for instructional music for conservatoires, performance pieces for music halls, exclusive virtuoso compositions for professional soloists. Any of this he could write, with little effort. He avoided opera. The music he produced was of high quality, but Madeleine felt that he treated the writing as casually as she treated knitting. Occasionally though, some piece would catch his imagination, to be worked more carefully and kept in his private library, not sold on.

He had almost given up making his clockwork toys, but he converted an outbuilding into a workshop where he kept his tools. Madeleine noticed, a few weeks after they had moved to the house, that he was spending more time there than usual. One day he called her into the living room and had her sit at the table. "I have been making a musical box," he told her. "I would like your opinion."

She ran her hands over the box on the table. It felt like plain, polished wood, with a pattern of raised metal studs on the lid. There was a winding key on the front and a dial on the side, with a pointer that could move to any of four positions. "The lid does not lift," he explained. "There is a lever next to the pointer which starts it playing. Try it. Wind it, turn the pointer to the left, press the lever. Then rest your hand on the top of the box."

Madeleine did so, then gave a small cry of pleasure. The box played a lively waltz, and the studs in the lid rose and fell in time to the music, tapping a rhythm on the palm of her hand. Pleased, she let the waltz play to its end. "It's lovely," she told him. "A wonderful idea."

"I am glad you like it, because it is for you. I needed the practice, just to keep my hand in. Try it again, with the pointer in the top position."

She did so, guessing beforehand what she would hear. The sweet little chimes played her own melody, the one he had written for her, while the moving studs pattered on her hand like the touch of his fingers. Suddenly Madeleine reached out to Erik where he sat beside her. Feeling her way up his arms, she framed his face with her hands and pressed a kiss to his lips. Then she withdrew and stood up, smiling. "Forgive the liberty. But you know how a sudden gift can move me." Swiftly wiping a tear from her cheek, she gathered the box into her hands. "I shall treasure this. But I think I should take it to my room, where its playing will not distract you from your music. Thank you, Erik. Thank you so much."

Erik smiled as he watched her go. He knew her to be wise and strong, yet sometimes she was childlike in her naïve spontaneity. He was glad that his little gift had pleased her. His fingers stroked his lips, where the warmth of her kiss still lingered. How bold she was now, how trusting, compared to the timid mouse he had first taken into his service in the Opera House. He had justified her boldness, he supposed, that day when he took her to his bed. No, it went back further than that. Since the time she had pulled him from the lake, saved his life… since then, she had been more willing to assert herself as his equal, and not an unregarded subordinate.

But his thoughts strayed back to those hours when they lay together, to those unexpected delights. He had told her that they could not continue as lovers, and she had obeyed him, never harking back to that encounter. Whether she ever thought of it, he did not know. He, though, remembered it from time to time. His eyes would follow the soft curves of her form as she moved about the house. His body would warm to the memory of that startling sweetness, that joy which was more than he had ever hoped to experience. He might have dreamed of lying in the arms of a woman, but not in his wildest fantasies had he expected the woman to respond to him with the wholehearted passion which Madeleine had shown.

He was tempted, sometimes, to ask her to repeat the experience. He believed that she would not reject him. _But_ … it was not really Madeleine he wanted. It was Christine whom he loved, desired, worshipped. Madeleine would only be a pale shadow of what Christine might have been to him. And Madeleine would know, if he yielded to the temptation. She was kind and generous, she would never reproach him, but she would know that she was second best. That would be unfair to her, and to him as well. He must school himself to think of her as a sister, one who gave him the warm affection which he had never received from his own family. He would not disturb her with the lust which sometimes disturbed him. In the privacy of his thoughts and his own room, he could find his own relief, and be content with that.

Christine… How sad that he never had the chance to delight her, as he had so quickly learned to delight Madeleine. He looked at his own deft hands. Perhaps he could have taken Christine to an ecstasy which she might never learn with the callow boy she had chosen. That was a joy which neither Christine nor Erik would ever now experience. He sighed. All he could offer her, though she would never know, was his love. Undying, unrequited, he laid his love on the altar of her memory.

With an effort that took all his strength of will, he tore his thoughts away and focused on the manuscript in front of him. Now, this sonata…

O-O-O

It was peaceful in the country, but the time came when Erik had another midnight visitor, and Madeleine began to worry. She had so hoped that such secretive dealings had been left behind in the city. Next day, he noticed that she sounded tense and withdrawn.

"Are you worried that I have business with people who move in darkness?"

"We talked before about the difference between crime and injustice. You told me that you had forsworn injustice… but that seems to say that you have not given up crime. I remember you saying, 'Money is power.' I worry about what you might do to make your fortune secure. I worry that your actions may rebound and harm you. Do we really need more money? Is it so expensive to live here? We could give up the servant… you know I am capable of doing her work."

He laughed. "Oh, Madeleine…" Taking her hand, he drew her to sit beside him on the sofa. "I know full well how hard you can work, and no, we are not so poor as that. In fact… there is something I need to explain to you. If you ever find yourself alone here, and cannot contact me…" Her hand tightened on his. "No, I have no plans to leave, but sometimes unplanned things can happen. In my desk, in the middle drawer on the right, you will find a folder of papers. Some in Braille for you, some in script to show others. I have recently deposited a sum of money in a safe investment, in your name. An attorney in Capelle has the management of it. If you wished, you could withdraw it all and spend it. But left alone, it will pay an income, enough for you to live on, if we are ever separated.

"However, about that visitor… he was merely keeping me up to date with happenings among the shadow-people in the city. I maintain contact with my informants, because… well, because I like to know what is happening. But now I have this home, my music, your companionship… I shall not seek danger, not if it troubles you. Come, let us walk in the garden, and think about what to plant for next year. What flowers do you like, that have a pleasant perfume…?"

O-O-O

That messenger, or another, came at irregular intervals, and no disasters followed. But after one such visit, Erik seemed worried. Madeleine heard him moving about in the living room, far into the night. Eventually, she pulled on a robe and went down to him.

He sounded surprised. "Oh – was I keeping you awake? I'm sorry." But he did not sound sorry, simply preoccupied.

"What is it? What news has upset you so?"

"Nothing. Well, something, I suppose, but it need not concern you."

"But it concerns you. Please tell me."

"Oh, very well. A rumour, that is all. A number of foreign dignitaries are visiting France, for a special conference. Apart from the state occasions, several important people will attend a private dinner party. The rumour is that a group of disaffected citizens will attempt some outrage – a murder, a kidnapping, something of that sort."

Madeleine frowned. "But that is political. I have never known you take an interest in politics before. Why was this information brought to you?"

There was a long pause, and he paced the floor several times before answering. "Because the Chagnys are among the guests. Because I have asked for any news concerning them."

It was Madeleine's turn to pause. "I see. Christine. How long have you been spying on her?"

"It is not spying! I have never been near her. I don't want to hound or distress her. Only… I need to know that she is well, happy, safe. My informants pass on any news concerning her."

"I thought… I thought that you had let her go."

"I did! Is it so wrong to want news of her?"

"But does this news make you happy? She made her choice, and it was not you. To keep reminding yourself of that… it seems to me like a drug addict returning to a craving that can never be satisfied. Surely if you could only forget her – "

"You speak like a fool!" He stopped pacing and stood in front of her. "What do you know of love? You once claimed that you loved me. Well then, if you know so much about it, teach me how to forget love. Teach me to put the past behind me. Pack your things and leave me – you have the means to do it. Or else I will go, and leave this house to you. Let us part, and when you have forgotten me, then perhaps I will know how to forget Christine."

Madeleine groped her way clumsily to a chair, and bowed her head into her hands, tears spilling down her face. "I could not… I could not forget you. I will never leave you of my own accord. You might send me away… but still I could never forget you."

"Then stop preaching what you cannot practise!" He strode out of the room, slamming the door.

After a restless night, Madeleine woke next day to find the house empty. She prowled from room to room, finding no message. The charwoman came, did her work, and left. Finally, Madeleine heard Erik's step on the path – and that was a courtesy to her. He could walk silently when he chose; if he paced to be heard, it was for her sake. She waited for him in the hall.

"I am sorry," she said as soon as he came in. "I did not understand… until you made me understand."

"And I am sorry, too," he replied. "Because when you likened me to a drug addict, you were very close to the truth. It would be better if I could forget… but it is beyond my power."

"And this conspiracy… what must be done about that? Do you think the Chagnys are at risk?"

"They are not important enough to be a target, but when bullets fly, anyone near may suffer. I have been to Paris this morning, setting things in motion." Concerned, Madeleine stepped nearer to him and ran her hand over his face. He was in his full disguise of wig, beard, and tinted spectacles, but even so, for him to be out in daylight was to risk drawing unwanted attention.

Erik understood why she had touched him, and did not comment. "The evidence is slight, but it has been gathered and laid before the police. The group should be arrested before the day of the dinner party. If there is a problem, at least they have been warned and can cancel the event."

The next few days were tense, but it seemed that all had been done which could be done. But the day of the party brought Erik's courier again. This time, Madeleine was not excluded from the conference.

"The police have made a hash of it," complained the messenger. "There was another dissident group with some scheme, a horde of amateurs with no hope of succeeding. The information we left was thought to be about them. They were rounded up, but the people we know of escaped. The dinner party is still on, and it is meant to be 'informal,' so police presence will be slight and unobtrusive."

"Damn! We must intervene. Have you found out any more of their plan?"

"No… but this party, twenty or thirty guests, is large for the house. They are hiring extra staff."

"Oh, God. So easy to place their man inside, so impossible to know which man, until the action starts."

"Man or woman," put in Madeleine.

"Yes, true, it is not safe to make assumptions. Violence is more often committed by men, but some women are capable of fanaticism."

"Probably man," the messenger suggested. "Female staff are more likely to be in the kitchen. A footman or waiter can get closer to the guests."

"True. Well, I must go to Paris, to see what may be done." He glanced at the clock. "There is a train within the hour. Girard, go to the station and buy tickets, while I change. And we will need a carriage and driver to meet us in Paris. Wire ahead and arrange it. A stylish carriage and pair – we are going to a wealthy district. We must not look out of place, and arouse suspicion."

"May I come?" Madeleine asked in a low voice.

"Good idea," Girard put in. "A gentleman with a lady on his arm looks more innocent than one alone. A blind lady tapping her way with a cane could never be suspected of anything."

"Very well. But, Madeleine, if I have to get into the house, you must wait with Girard in the carriage. I may need to leave in haste."

"I shall do as you say. Should we wear the matching birthmarks, pass as brother and sister?"

"No – time presses. Put on your dress with the velvet trim. Dark blue is respectable and unobtrusive. I shall use the smoother wig and beard. Girard, go now, tickets for three."

O-O-O

The home of the Marquis who hosted the dinner party was a grand house in a street of grand houses. Carriage after carriage pulled up at the door, disgorged splendidly-dressed occupants, then drove on to a nearby stable yard to wait out the evening. One carriage did not stop, but pulled out into the road and drove past the others at a walk.

"Did you see the plain-clothes policeman supposed to be on guard?" growled Girard. "Too busy gawking at the guests. Useless. What do we pay our taxes for?"

"When did you ever pay taxes, Girard?" murmured Erik, his attention on the street. Madeleine stifled a nervous giggle. Erik directed the coachman round the next turning and told him to stop. "Mademoiselle and I are going to walk along the lane behind the row of houses. It should take about five minutes. I want you to drive around the block and meet us at the other end." They alighted, and the carriage drove away.

"Do we saunter, or walk briskly?" Madeleine asked, as Erik drew her hand through his arm.

"Briskly, I think, but not too hurried. I need a look at the back of the house." When he came level with it, he paused. "No one in sight. Fortunately, there are too many guests to leave the carriages here. They engaged space elsewhere. I just need a moment…"

"An excuse to stop?" asked Madeleine. "Perhaps I need a handkerchief…" She began rummaging in her bag.

"Yes, good. Stay close against the wall here." He left her, but was back within a minute. "This will work. There is a place where I can easily get over the garden wall, and a drainpipe giving access to an upstairs window, probably a bathroom." Madeleine shivered. "Don't worry. It's much easier than some of the hidden ways I used around the Opera House." Madeleine did worry, but this was his mission, and she could not interfere.

They met their carriage. Inside, Erik shed his black coat, and covered shirt and waistcoat with a black jersey. He rolled the coat into a small haversack, already packed with a few useful things.

"Are you armed?" Girard asked softly.

"Certainly not. If there are assassins about, I have no wish to be mistaken for one of them. There are… quieter methods of dealing with adversaries. However, I hope to find that all is well, and I can slip out the way I came. If I have to leave by the door, I shall wear the coat, and try to look like a waiter or valet. Take the carriage back to the main street, and drive slowly up and down. There is traffic. You should not be noticed, but if you are questioned, then you are waiting for someone who is late, and walking the horses to keep them warm. Girard, look after Mademoiselle. You will be well paid for this night's work."

"Erik – " Madeleine reached a hand towards him. "Be careful."

He pressed her hand. "Always. I shall see you later." He slipped silently away.

O-O-O

Inside the house, the Marquis's glittering guests had gathered for drinks in the drawing room, before moving into the dining room. As they were being seated at the long table, a waiter at the far end of the room, who appeared to be dealing with a bottle of champagne, suddenly produced a pistol from an empty ice-bucket, turned to face the table and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Silence! No one move!" There were cries of protest, and a woman's scream. "Quiet! Everybody keep still and there'll only be one death here. Get stupid, and there'll be more." He raised the gun, tracking it along the line of seated figures.

From the door came a surge of black-clad movement. The gunman whirled and let off a shot, but the moving figure leapt swiftly on to the sideboard, then to the table. He scattered dishes and kicked a bowl of flowers into the gunman's face, spoiling his aim. Throwing himself almost on to the muzzle of the gun, he bowled over the gunman, whose weapon spun out of his hand. A loop of cord was thrown over the gunman's head and tightened on his throat. He clawed ineffectually at it.

"Get out!" Erik shouted to the table at large. "There may be more of them. Get out of this room, and stay away from windows." Some of the diners sat frozen, but others rose quickly and urged their neighbours back to the door. Christine stumbled to her feet, bewildered. The face of the stranger meant nothing to her, but the movement, the voice – they tugged at a memory. Then Raoul's arm was round her, pushing her quickly out of the room, and the moment was lost in another threat. With a crash, something heavy was thrown through the front window into the room. Erik saw a section of metal pipe land on the floor, a wisp of smoke escaping from one end. Leaving the throttled gunman, he seized the pipe and hurled it back through the window. It exploded in the air outside, shattering the window completely, blasting Erik off his feet and into a tangle of furniture, amidst a hail of flying glass and debris.

The Marquis came cautiously into the dining room, backed by some of his own servants and a police officer. There was confused noise from the street, the sound of running feet and galloping horses, but within the smoke-hazed room, all was now quiet. The gunman was moving feebly, trying to loosen the cord on his throat. The servants quickly overpowered him, while the policeman handcuffed him.

"He was aiming for the Prince," said the Marquis. "If he had succeeded – unthinkable. It could have meant war. But who is our rescuer here?" Erik lay unconscious in the wreckage. "Summon a doctor, quickly. We owe this man a debt. He must be cared for."

"He's wearing a disguise," noted the policeman.

"I dare say he can explain, if we don't let him bleed to death while we discuss it." A maid volunteered the information that he had been hiding in the cloakroom behind the stairs. At the first gunshot, he had sprinted to the dining room.

Erik's inert body was eased on to a blanket and carried to a couch in an adjacent room. His face and hands were bloody from glass cuts, and it soon became clear that one of his legs was broken. The doctor came, checked his pulse and breathing, and pronounced him not in immediate danger. "But that leg will have to be set and splinted, and I may as well do that while he is unconscious. My assistant can attend to any cuts and bruises among your guests. What about the other man who was near the explosion?"

"The police have him in custody. Their medical man can see to him. The man who threw the bomb from the street… they did not catch him."

"I see this one is wearing a wig and false beard. They may have saved him some damage from flying glass. Those cuts on cheek and forehead are shallow. His eyes escaped. But he has taken a hard blow to the head. Let us see…" He eased off the wig, and gasped at the ravaged skull beneath. "Dear God… but this is old, since birth, I should think. Here, on the side of his head – this is the knock that has concussed him." His fingers explored gently. "I do not think there is a fracture. We will know more when he wakes up. Meanwhile, that leg…"

Erik felt consciousness seeping back, in a wash of pain. There were voices around… he was trapped, then… but there was something important… As he tried to speak, those around him leaned to catch his words. "What was that? Something about a lady?"

He tried again. "In the street… a carriage… Lady in a blue dress… she is blind. The bomb… I must know. Please… find her. Madeleine Duval…"

The Marquis spoke to a footman, then turned back to Erik. "I have sent to enquire for her. But now, please accept my thanks, although that is too poor a word. I do not know who you are, but undoubtedly that assassin wanted to kill the Prince. Thanks to you, he and all my guests have escaped."

Erik tried to grasp what was happening. The other guests… that should mean something… But a single thought possessed him. "The lady in the carriage… she was in the street… I threw the bomb into the street. If she was near…"

"I have men looking for her. She will be found. But be assured, there are no reports of injuries in the street. Please rest now… excuse me, I have things to see to."

The house was swarming with police, now that the danger was over. The guests, who had been hustled into a rear sitting room, were preparing to leave, a few at a time, as their carriages were brought up. The Prince who had been the target was clearly still shaken, but carried himself with dignity. The President of France himself had just arrived, to try to soothe the offended royal feelings. Through this bustle, a footman led Madeleine straight to the room where Erik lay.

"Madeleine! Are you all right?" He was fully conscious now, and as she was brought to the couch he seized her hand. The footman placed a chair for her.

"Yes, yes. When the explosion came, the horses bolted. It took the driver a little time to stop them and come back. I was thrown to the floor of the carriage. A few bruises, no more. But you, Erik… they told me you are badly hurt…" Releasing his hand, she reached towards him, uncertain how to touch him without causing more injury.

He recaptured her hand. "A broken leg, a bump on the head. Do not touch my face, it is bloody, but no great harm done. Now you are safe, all is well…"

"And… the others here…?" With people listening, Madeleine feared to say too much. "I heard shots…"

"Oh… they told me that no one was hurt. The gunman is taken, but the bomber was too fast for them. His role must have been to act if the gunman was foiled. That would have been a blood-bath. As Girard said, a poor showing by the police. My concern now is how to arrange our departure." He sounded tired, now that his anxiety about Madeleine was relieved.

The doctor came into the room in time to hear these words. "You should not plan on leaving yet, my friend. You are concussed, and you will not walk on that leg for weeks. The Marquis is arranging to have a bed and other necessities brought to this room for you."

"There is no need. I have a home to go to…"

"Not tonight," the doctor replied firmly. "Tomorrow, if you insist, we shall have you conveyed home."

There were voices at the door, as the Marquis and the President entered together. "Here is our mysterious saviour," explained the Marquis. "And, I see, the lady he was so concerned for. I do not know who he is, but I saw him foil a murderous attack on the Prince, and with his own hands he deflected the bomb which would have destroyed everyone in the room. But for him, I think that France might very soon have been at war."

The President came forward. "Monsieur, France owes you a great debt of gratitude. If there is anything that France can give you as a reward, I beg that you will ask it now."

Erik closed his eyes wearily. "My burden has been with me since my birth. I do not think that even France can lift it."

But Madeleine put in quickly, "No, Erik. There is something that France could do for you, that would lift a great burden from you."

"I am delighted to hear it, Madame," said the President. "May I ask who you are, that you seem to know our hero so well?"

Somewhere in the confusion, Madeleine had lost her eye-band. Now she turned her blind eyes full on the President. Experience had taught her that this made people uneasy, but it also made them pay heed to her. "I am his friend," she replied proudly. "Make of that what you will."

"I… understand."

"I suspect that you do not," countered Erik, his attention now on Madeleine. "But she is, and for a long time has been, my one true friend. She sees more clearly than many of us who have eyes. Anything she wishes to say is worth hearing."

The President caught the implication. Not a mistress then, or at least not only that. "You have my attention, Madame. What can we do for this gentleman, to show his country's gratitude?"

"Give him a new name, and a new beginning. A clean slate, with the past wiped out." Her mind groped for the unfamiliar word. "Amnesty."

The President drew a sharp breath, then paused for thought. "I think we must be sure we all understand what is being discussed here. And… I think we should talk about this in private." He turned to the other people, hovering politely in the background. "Gentlemen, would you have the goodness to leave us alone for a few minutes?" The others filed out and closed the door. "Madame… Monsieur… Amnesty is usually requested for someone whose past contains crimes which have never been charged. It is very rarely granted. Society does not wish to have known or suspected criminals set free, perhaps to pursue a further life of crime."

At the same time, part of his mind was busy. The man who had done such an outstanding service for France deserved to be publicly decorated with the Order of the Légion d'Honneur. But the less said in public about this affair, the better. Amnesty was a matter of paperwork which could be done discreetly. Anyone inclined to dredge up the past could be hushed on grounds of national security. And, after all, this man had just risked his own life to prevent a crime, not to commit one. If this was the price of his silence, it might well be worth paying.

"I do not deny that my past contains dark episodes," replied Erik. "And you should be glad of it. For if I had not known… the people whom I do know… I would never have heard of tonight's plot, and the assassins would have had their way."

"A telling point," murmured the President.

"Monsieur… you see my head is uncovered. This is part of what has shaped my history. Forgive me if I do not remove the beard. It is rather firmly attached." Erik turned to give the President a full view of his misshapen skull. "You may take my word that my face is equally distorted, beyond what you see. This made me an outcast. Society had no place for me, and in turn I had no use for society and its laws. But now… lately… I have found a place where I am happy. To feel I could remain there safely, with no fear of the past coming back to condemn me… that would indeed be a great gift."

"And could I trust that a clean record would remain clean? That I would not be releasing a danger to others?"

"This lady, who is indeed my friend, has also served as my conscience. The first time she learned of an evil deed of mine, she said, 'I thought you more of a man than that.' That shamed me, perhaps the first time in my life I had known shame. Such deeds as that, I have not repeated, not wishing to shame myself again. If I had a fresh start, an unsullied name… I would bestow that name upon her, if she would accept it. Madeleine, if I can put the past – put all of the past – behind me, will you be my wife, and help me keep that name unsullied?"

Too moved to speak, Madeleine stooped and kissed him. The President looked on benignly, but the kiss seemed destined to last a long time. "Then let us take that as settled. I shall instruct my secretary to make the necessary arrangements. I trust I may expect an invitation to the wedding?" But no answer was forthcoming, so he quietly left the room.

O-O-O O-O-O O-O-O

 _(End of Part One)_


	14. 14: Transition

PART TWO: MEMORY OF A VOICE

14: Transition

"He said yes," Madeleine said eventually, after the President had gone.

"He did," agreed Erik. "You know, romantic novels would say that, when we were kissing, we should not have noticed anything else in the world."

"Perhaps we were not kissing properly. Do we need more practice?"

"Undoubtedly. But perhaps somewhere more private than here. Madeleine, you never cease to astonish me. I would never have dreamed of asking for amnesty."

"Oh, I dream of many things. That you would be free… that you would ask me to marry you… I hardly expected both to come true at once."

"You know I was knocked out by the explosion. When I came to myself… the one thought in my mind was that you were in the street, where I had thrown the bomb. I recalled my life since you have been with me, and saw a nightmare prospect of a life without you. That taught me to know myself. Taught me that the past, after all, can be left in the past. You are my present… and my future."

There was a discreet knock, and the Marquis entered, to find Madeleine seated sedately beside Erik, clasping his hand.

"Monsieur… Mademoiselle… the President has explained matters to me. You are both, of course, my most honoured guests. The doctor tells me that Monsieur expressed a wish to leave. If that is what you want, then we shall arrange it. But I hope I can persuade you to follow the doctor's advice and rest here, at least for tonight. Mademoiselle, please accept my word that your fiancé looks very ill. To be so near an explosion is a bad shock to the system." Madeleine knew it already. She could feel the fine tremors in Erik's hand, and his skin had a clammy texture, different from his usual dry coolness.

Erik sighed. "Very well. It is true, I feel… less than healthy. We shall stay here tonight."

Madeleine moved her hand to Erik's shoulder, then to his face and head. "You will need to remove the beard. If the doctor can give me some surgical spirit, I will do that for you." Ever since Madeleine had known about Erik's use of disguise, she had been curious and interested. Intrigued by her unflinching acceptance of his face, he had explained and discussed his tricks and skills with her. She knew that the skin on his face was very thin in places, and the glue which secured the beard would cause irritation if left on for too long.

"Yes, you had better do that," he replied. "If we speak of shocks to the system, let Monsieur le Marquis see just what he is harbouring. Monsieur, I left a grey canvas bag concealed in the cloakroom behind your staircase. Perhaps someone could bring it to me. And be warned, I cover my face for a reason. You may prefer to avoid the sight."

When Madeleine had secured a bottle of spirit and bowls of warm water, she set about cleaning away the glue which held Erik's beard in place. Once it was removed, she wiped the dried blood from around the cuts on his face. His disguise spectacles, lost now in the debris of the dining room, had protected his eyes from the flying glass. With professional interest the doctor watched her skill at the work and the strangeness of Erik's face as it was revealed. "You have a delicate touch, Mademoiselle. Monsieur, this one cut on your cheekbone would be the better for a stitch or two. It is not necessary for the others. Perhaps a little iodine…"

"Stitch if you want to," Erik agreed tiredly. "But no iodine. You would paint a clown's mask on a demon's face. If the cuts give trouble later, Madeleine can deal with it." The doctor moved closer to attend to the cut, and to bandage a soft pad over the head injury. Madeleine stepped quietly behind the sofa, reaching down over its back. Erik took her hand. "Madeleine, what became of Girard and the carriage?"

"The street was full of police. Girard sent the carriage to wait a little distance away, and walked back here with me. When the footman came looking for me, Girard stayed behind, but said that he would be about the place, if needed."

"Could you get one of the servants here to guide you to the street? Girard will not approach a stranger, but you he will trust. Tell him to dismiss the carriage and go home. I will be in touch with him later."

The Marquis had come back into the room. "I shall find someone to go with you, Mademoiselle. Meanwhile, Monsieur, my men will bring a bed into this room for you, so that you may pass a comfortable night without having to move too much. I shall have a room prepared for Mademoiselle."

"That will not be necessary," Madeleine said quickly. "This sofa will do very well for me. I prefer to be within the sound of Erik's voice."

"As you wish. We will arrange something here."

Erik opened his bag and produced a hooded mask in black silk, which covered his face down to the chin. "You take my appearance very calmly, Monsieur le Marquis, but I shall wear this while your servants are in the room."

"By all means. When we found you, we noticed that you were disguised. Now I know the reason. I shall tell my men that you prefer not to show your face. They need not know why."

Madeleine was escorted to the street; after a few minutes Girard found her and was given the message. When she returned to the room, things had been changed. The Marquis took her arm and guided her around the new arrangement. A bed had been placed for Erik. The doctor and his assistant had helped him change into nightclothes and settled him in it, but the movement had evidently tired him. He pressed Madeleine's hand and tried to murmur reassurance, but made no more complaints about staying there for the night. The couch had been removed and a second bed brought in for Madeleine, concealed behind a folding screen. A nightdress and dressing gown were laid ready.

"This is very kind," Madeleine said, using hands and cane to locate everything. "Whatever people may think, Erik and I are not accustomed to sharing a bedroom. But after all that has happened, I wish to remain near him until we can return home."

Some food was brought for them, then they were left in peace for the night. Madeleine sat for a long time at Erik's bedside, clasping his hand, kissing him gently, stroking his forehead, until he fell asleep. Next morning he felt much better, sitting up in bed to eat breakfast. The doctor came back and reminded him that concussion needed several days of recovery. "I recommend complete bed rest for, say, four days. I can engage a male nurse to take care of your needs during that time. And of course, the Marquis will pay all the costs."

"No. No nurse."

"I rather expected that. Next best, then. You realise, of course, that you must not put weight on that leg. If I supply you with crutches, so that you can move if you must, will you try to stay in bed? Remember, if you push yourself too far, you will faint and fall. Mademoiselle is very capable, but she cannot pick you up and put you to bed."

Erik reflected that on one occasion she had done exactly that, but refrained from saying so. "Madeleine, are you willing to fetch and carry for me, until my head stops spinning?"

"Of course. More than anything, I just want both of us to be home."

The Marquis had arranged a private ambulance to convey them home. When asked, Madeleine agreed that it would be easier if Erik slept on the ground floor until his leg mended, and that there was a suitable room. The Marquis would send two men with them to rearrange the furniture under her direction. During this discussion, a messenger arrived from the presidential office, with papers to be signed and witnessed. Erik had long ago left his family name behind, and wanted a common surname. He had used the name "Lisle" when dealing with his music agent, and that was now made official.

With everything arranged, the group boarded the large, well-sprung vehicle, the doctor inside with Erik and Madeleine, the Marquis's servants on the box with the driver. Erik was still unwell, and slept for most of the trip. It was tedious, but eventually it was over. Madeleine directed the servants to clear the dining room and bring Erik's bed downstairs. While Madeleine and the doctor settled him in bed, the servants fetched milk, bread and other provisions. Finally, with relief, Madeleine was able to wave them all away, sending back her thanks to the Marquis. She returned to Erik's room, feeling her way around the new arrangement of furniture.

"They are gone." She sighed. "They meant well, and they were helpful, but oh, I am glad that we are alone again."

"And I. Come here." When she moved to his bedside, he slid an arm round her and pulled her down on to the bed beside him. She gasped, and laughed. "We are not wed yet!"

"I am being quite proper, my promised bride. You are on top of the covers and I am under them. I fear we must delay the wedding a little. I want to stand before the altar on my own feet, and not be distracted on our wedding night by broken bones."

"It's as well we have never used the brother-and-sister guise since we moved here. That would have shocked the townspeople when we marry. As it is, although I have called myself your housekeeper, I expect they think I am your mistress, and they will say you are making an honest woman of me."

"That would be beyond my skill. You are already the most honest woman I know." He paused for a moment. "Madeleine… before we marry… I want to make sure you understand about me… things you have a right to know. You already know that I have killed…"

"Fonta? Yes, I am not likely to forget. And… even before you told me about the others… I was sure that he was not the first."

"No. But, for what it is worth, he was the last. For my part, I have not forgotten your shock, when you learned about him. That you could accept my face so calmly, but be horrified by my actions... I have no wish to see that horror on your face again. But there is something else. My mind… I do not think of myself as insane, but, I suppose, neither does the most raving madman in the asylum. There are times when my mind… wanders. When I find myself in a world which, I realise later, is not the real world. Something like a dream, but a dream where I am moving, acting, affecting other people. You have seen this happen once."

"When you mistook me for Christine? You had just received a great shock, one which jolted you into delusion. You recovered quickly enough."

"But that was not the first time delusion had tricked me. It used to happen quite frequently. Recently, less so. Perhaps as I grow older, my dreams are growing weaker. But I cannot promise that it will never happen again."

Madeleine thought about that for a while. Eventually she replied slowly, "I have heard… that living too long alone can upset the balance of the mind. You, I think, had lived virtually alone for many years. I remember being puzzled by the way you sometimes spoke of yourself as though you were speaking of someone else, and perhaps that showed that you were not quite in touch with reality. But, Erik, you are not alone now. You have not been alone since that day you found me hiding in your cellar. I know my presence has sometimes been an intrusion, a nuisance. You need not stir yourself to deny it! But there were also times when I was an amusement or a comfort to you. Perhaps my nearness is enough to shield you from the demons of too much solitude. But if the shield should fail, if the demons rise again… still, I do not fear you. I want to be your wife."

"You are brave, as well as wise. Although… to marry me may not be the wisest choice which you have ever made. But if it is an error, it is a fortunate one for me." He kissed her forehead. "You look tired. Could you sleep a little?"

"Oh yes." Snuggled against him, she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

O-O-O

He noticed when she woke, and stroked her hair. "Better? I slept on the way, but I think that you did not."

"The doctor kept talking. He seemed to think that, because I cannot see, I must be told everything which he could see from the window. Whether it was interesting or not."

"You have the gift of stillness. Not everyone has, or can even understand it." He kissed her, softly, but Madeleine responded, and the kiss grew stronger. Both could remember the one day when they had embraced. Not the first joining, the fierce burning away of Erik's frustrated desire for Christine, but the second, the gentle one, a matter of tender touching and exploring, each seeking to please the other, until passion swept away thought. The memory woke fresh desire.

"Oh…" With an effort, Madeleine pulled away. "This is not right. If we go on, we will regret it."

"Yes… you wish to wait until we are married… I understand," he murmured breathlessly.

"It's not that. I want you to be well, your hurts healed. I don't want to have to hesitate over every touch, in case I cause you pain."

"You are right, as usual. Go, then! Make some supper, while I lie here and try to mend my bones."

O-O-O O-O-O


	15. 15: Confession

15: Confession

By the following morning, Erik's broken leg had swollen inside the bandages, causing him enough pain that Madeleine could detect it by his voice and breathing. He did not argue when she insisted on summoning a local doctor. The Paris doctor, not having materials available to make a plaster cast, had splinted the broken bone with wooden slats and padding from knee to ankle. The local man left the splints in place, but adjusted the bandages to fit securely without impeding the circulation. Erik had him demonstrate to Madeleine how the splints and bandages should be arranged. The doctor, somewhat dubiously, guided her hands as she felt her way around the leg. But, as Erik could have predicted, she handled the injury even more gently than the doctor had. Erik paid the doctor and dismissed him, preferring to have Madeleine care for him while he was healing.

Erik had refused any pain-relief drugs while the doctor attended to his leg, but he was subdued afterwards. That afternoon, Madeleine mentioned doubtfully that she needed to go to the shops for food. He somewhat testily assured her that he would be fine. On his crutches he could get to the washroom when necessary, he had books and a carafe of water at his bedside, and he needed nothing else.

She completed her errands as quickly as she could, returned to the house and went to his room, quietly, in case he was asleep. The bed was empty, the crutches gone. Hurriedly she checked the washroom, calling his name, but he was not there. She began searching the ground floor of the house, systematically but with growing anxiety, until she found him with her guiding cane. He lay unconscious on the floor of the living room, beside the piano, the crutches lying next to him. "Oh, Erik!" she murmured between fear and exasperation, as she moved the crutches aside and knelt to examine him. His head, injured in the explosion, was still bandaged. The dressings did not appear disturbed, nor could Madeleine find evidence of any newer damage. But his skin was colder than usual and clammy, his breathing rather fast. "Fainted," she said to his unresponsive form. "The Paris doctor warned you about concussion and shock, but oh no, you can't take advice. How long did you sit there playing, before you collapsed?" He began to stir as she handled him.

Going to the kitchen, she came back with a jug of cold water. She dipped a cloth in it and rubbed it over his face. He muttered a protest and tried to push her hand away. "Behave, or I'll empty the jug over you," she said sharply. "Just lie there for a minute."

"Help me… help me up," he said faintly after a pause. "My crutches…"

"Your crutches are out of your reach, and they're going to stay that way. If you try to get up, you'll just fall down again. Did the fall injure you? Your leg?"

"Don't fuss. My leg is fine," he snapped.

"Pity. If you had knocked it, that might have taught you some sense. Now, keep still." She went to his room and brought back a blanket which she spread on the floor beside him, first having to move some of the furniture aside. Taking him under the arms, she lifted him on to the blanket. He understood what she was about, and did what he could to help, but his breathing told her it was an effort for him. Gripping the corners of the blanket, she used it to slide him over the polished floor and into the bedroom.

"I could have managed," he complained weakly. "You do not have to do this…"

"I've done it before," she retorted. "At least this time we are not both soaking wet."

Once in the bedroom, she took a good hold of him, and with an ungainly heave she hoisted him on to the bed. He was thin, and she was strong, but still it was difficult, and she panted as she arranged him more comfortably and covered him. "Now, will you be sensible, or do I have to tie you down? I have better things to do than to haul you about."

He reached up and touched her face with a shaky hand. "Your indignation would… would carry more conviction if you were not crying."

She scrubbed her eyes impatiently. "What do you expect? I come in to find you gone from bed, and lying like a corpse on the floor. Would you make me a widow without ever being a bride?"

"I told you yesterday… I am no prize, as a bridegroom."

"Yes, yes. You are a killer, your sanity is doubtful. I can live with that. But I never thought you a fool." She heard him draw a sharp breath. "Erik, don't you realise you are mortal, not invincible? You are a sick man, and I want you to get well, but you must rest. Is that so hard to do?"

"Since you ask… yes, it is. You surely know by now that I need little sleep. I tried reading, but it makes my head ache. Lying here hour after hour is wearisome. Do you wonder that I sought solace at the piano?"

Somewhat mollified, Madeleine arranged his pillows more comfortably and smoothed her hand over his forehead, beneath the bandage. He was still in a cold sweat, and when she took his wrist, she could feel that his heart was beating fast. "I am sorry. I had not thought of that. I have… what did you call it...? the gift of stillness. If there is nothing to be done, I can do nothing, and it does not burden me. But you… it is less than two days since you caught the brunt of an explosion which might easily have killed you. This time in bed is necessary, until you are better. Tomorrow I will bring your flute to you, but now you need to lie still. How can I help? Shall I read to you? My Braille library is limited. Would you like _Fables of La Fontaine_? Or perhaps _Countries of the World_?"

"No." He touched her hand. "Just… fetch a chair, sit here and talk to me. Please."

Madeleine did so, making herself comfortable and clasping his hand, but before she could speak, it was he who began. "No prize as a bridegroom… Yes, a murderer with the face of a demon, not always sane… a fool? Capable of foolish acts, anyway."

"We all do foolish things sometimes," she replied. "But you are no fool, and we both know that."

"Well, while I am in the mood to confess my sins, you may recall I mentioned extortion once, when we were talking about money."

Madeleine shrugged. "You blackmailed criminals. I cannot grieve for that."

"Ah, but that was only part of the story…" He told her how, for years, he had systematically demanded money from the Opera House management, causing "accidents" when they resisted, until they feared him enough to pay up regularly. His voice grew stronger as he gradually recovered from the fainting fit, and Madeleine felt that he was more proud of his cleverness than ashamed of being a parasite. "I was moderate. I never took more than the business could afford, never risked bankrupting them. And I helped them. I sent reviews of their productions, I advised them on the good or bad qualities of performers. I wanted my Opera to be as good as it could be. Then the two men who had managed the business for years decided to leave."

"I wonder why," Madeleine murmured wryly.

Erik ignored this. "The new managers were told about me, but they thought it was some kind of joke. I sent them polite letters, I explained, but they remained obdurate. I thought I would have to arrange some demonstration to persuade them, but then the… the incident with Buquet brought them to heel."

He heard her draw breath to ask a question, and quickly went on to talk about other pranks and stratagems which he had used to frighten the denizens of the Opera into obedience, culminating in the time when he swung the magnificent chandelier, pendulum-fashion, and released it at the right moment to send it crashing down to the stage. Madeleine, however, had not forgotten the question she wanted to ask.

"Who is Buquet, and what was this 'incident'?"

"A stage hand, no one important. But he was inquisitive, and would go poking his nose into places that did not concern him. One day he came rather too close to my house, and he walked into… one of my safeguards against discovery. I was not aware of it at the time, but the mechanism took care of him."

"Erik, speak plainer! Safeguard? Mechanism? This is something you built, like the hidden doors and the alarms? And what do you mean by 'took care of him'?"

"Oh, he was already dead by the time I found him. I had nothing to do with it. But I took him back upstairs and left him where he would be found. After that, the managers saw the wisdom of paying my salary on time."

Madeleine snatched her hand from Erik's, stood up and paced the room. "Erik, a man died because of you, and you say you had _nothing to do with it_? You lie there smugly contemplating your own cleverness? If you built a deadly trap, then you are responsible for the life it took. If you pretend otherwise you are deceiving yourself, but you do not deceive me."

"But Madeleine, I told you, he was not important."

"As Fonta was not important! Then am _I_ important? You know – now – that I used to explore the corridors while you were away. It could have been me."

"Dear God!" The thought startled him, and he was silent for several seconds before going on, more quietly. "It was… designed to catch… those approaching from above. You, starting from the house, would not have come near it. But if you had…" He sighed. "If you had died in that trap, I would have died later in the lake, and we would not be having this conversation. Damn it, why did I ever tell you?" His weariness was returning. "Boasting of my own cleverness, just as you said. It's as though some devil were prompting me to drive you away, just when I have discovered how much I need you. There must be a limit to what even you can forgive."

Madeleine returned to her chair and sat silently for a while. She had known that he had done many evil deeds. Could she forgive them? Perhaps her forgiveness was irrelevant, since his crimes had not been against her. Could she, then, continue to live with… continue to love… a man who had done so much evil? But if she left him… might he return to his old ways? He had said that her opinion mattered, that he did not wish to shame himself again before her. If she could keep him away from crime, then she would be doing some good, to him and to the rest of the world.

Besides, even if she were going to leave him, she could not do it now, not while he lay sick and injured. And… did he realise that? Had he deliberately chosen this time to make his "confession," because he knew that his need of her would keep her at his side? She had not sensed any duplicity in his manner, but perhaps his strong urge to survive was prompting him at an instinctive level.

It hardly mattered. Looking inside herself, she knew that she was not leaving.

She took his hand again. "Erik, I admit that all this gives me pain. I can… forgive, if that is the word… things you have done in the past. But please, please, do not do such deeds again. Do not come to me with fresh blood on your hands. That would be too much for me to bear. And… do not lie. Not to me, not to yourself. Don't blame your victims, saying that they brought their fate upon themselves, as you tried to blame Buquet just now. Have the honesty to face up to your own actions."

Erik let go of her hand, and she heard a movement at the pillow as though he had turned his head away. After a few moments he sighed, took her hand again and pressed it to his lips, but did not reply. Madeleine gathered her thoughts.

"Since you have begun to confess your past… One thing more. Christine. How did you gain such power over her? She told me herself that she used to believe you were the Angel of Music, sent to her by her father. How could you make use of that? How did you know of the stories her father had told her?"

"Christine. Ah, yes. She made it easy for me. I had heard her sing, I knew her voice could be wonderful if only I had the chance to teach her. Of course, I could not let her see me, so I began whispering to her, a hidden voice. I intended her to think that I was the Opera Ghost, but the next day, she asked me outright if I was the Angel that her father had promised her. Naturally, I accepted the role she created for me."

"So you spoke to her out of the walls of the Opera House? I know enough of your skills to understand that. But she believed you? No hint of incredulity? She never suspected some hoax by her fellow-workers?"

"I had more than just words to convince her. There is a… a trick I can do, a tone of voice… a kind of mesmerism, I suppose, to induce belief or obedience in those who listen to me."

"Induce belief? I don't understand. I had no trouble disbelieving you a moment ago, when you tried to protest your innocence of Buquet's death."

"No, I do not mean in conversation. There is a way I can speak, or sing, a way to shape my voice so that it affects some people. I discovered this when I was a child. Older boys would catch me and torment me for my ugliness, before I had grown strong enough to fight or wily enough to escape. They wanted to make me scream or beg. I confused them by singing to them. I found I could sometimes make an assailant forget about me and leave, or just fall asleep until I got away. As time went on, I refined that skill as I have all my other skills. When I travelled in the East, I met men there who had studied this art, and I learned to do more with the power I had been born with. I can send susceptible people into a kind of sleep-walking state, where they move and act, but do my will, not their own."

Madeleine recalled the first evening that Christine came to Erik's house by the lake. They sang together, then he sang alone. And Madeleine, listening to them from another room, had almost fallen asleep, and had to fight to stay awake. Then Erik had told her that Christine was "asleep." Was that sleep, then, mesmerically induced, not natural? Had Madeleine caught the edge of his influence?

"You mean you… you tampered with Christine's mind? Wiped away any doubts, and forced belief?" Madeleine shuddered.

"She was predisposed to believe me. As a child she loved fairy tales, and wanted them to be true. In fairy tales, beauty nearly always relates to goodness. As an adult, if she did not quite believe, she wished. My voice is beguiling – unless I choose to make it otherwise. When she heard my voice, she believed that the owner of it must be all that was good and beautiful. Of course, later, that worked against me. When she snatched off my mask and saw the reality beneath, so different from what she had imagined, she was far more shocked than she would have been if she had never woven such golden fantasies."

"Be careful, Erik, you are doing it again – blaming your victim for your own actions. It was you who wove the fantasies, cold-bloodedly using her susceptibility. But, Erik, this casual playing of games with another person's mind… sapping their will, making puppets of them. I feel that you are boasting again, believing yourself superior. Do you not see how horrible a thing it is to do? Such an invasion… it is…" her voice died, but drawing breath, she continued more firmly. "It is a kind of rape, Erik. I know you never raped Christine's body, but do you not see that this meddling with her mind was equally a violation? The very thought of it troubles me more than the deaths you have caused. Erik…" Her voice faded to a shaken whisper. "Have you ever invaded _my_ mind like that?"

"No, never," he protested. "When I first knew you, I had no cause. You were…" he hesitated.

"I did not matter enough," she supplied dispassionately.

"At any rate, later you became important to me. And then… I could tell that you liked me. Liked me for myself. No one had ever done that before. That liking was precious to me. I would never meddle with a mind which could feel friendship for me."

"No? There was one time… when that man tried to hire you to commit a murder. Oh, God, I was so angry… I wanted to scream at you, hurt you, do anything to make you see yourself as I saw you. I was so outraged, I was ready to walk out on you. But you persuaded me not to go. How did you do that, Erik? _How?"_

"With truth, and nothing more. That was when I realised how much I wanted you to stay with me, although I would not have called it love, not then."

 _Not then?_ she thought. _No, nor now. You have never told me you love me, Erik. But you do want me for your wife, and that is enough. I do not need the word._

His mind was still on the night she spoke of leaving him. "But to trick you into staying by unfair means… that would have defeated my own purpose. It had to be your choice. I was inexpressibly relieved when you made that choice. And now… now that I have told you the worst of me… I feel again the fear that I will lose you."

"No." Madeleine leaned and kissed him. "No, I do not wish to leave you. But we have talked enough for now. Do you think you could sleep for a while?" When he assented, she tidied his blankets, then quietly left the room. She had much to think about.

O-O-O O-O-O


	16. 16: Reparation

16: Reparation

Next morning, Erik was stronger, but to please Madeleine he stayed in bed. She propped him up on pillows and gave him his flute to amuse himself with, enjoying the lilting melodies which sounded through the house as she attended to her housekeeping. After a while, the music changed to the little tune which he had written for her. Smiling to herself, she dusted her hands off and went to his bedroom.

"Did you want me?" she asked.

"My angel of mercy, I thought that tune would bring you. Would you make me some coffee, please?"

"Of course."

She was on her way out of the room, when he spoke again. "And, Madeleine… bring some for yourself also, and sit with me a while." What was that note in his voice? Entreaty? Not quite, perhaps, but she felt his need for company, to distract himself from his disabled state.

When she brought the coffee, she set it down beside the bed and pulled up a chair. "I have enjoyed hearing you play this morning," she remarked.

"It helps to reduce the tedium. Inactivity is galling for me. But as well as playing, I have been thinking. I must buy you something special as a wedding present, but I am not sure what you would like. I know jewels hold little charm for you, and that is understandable, although of course you shall have an engagement ring and a wedding ring. Since I cannot leave the house, I must send for the local jeweller to come here with a selection of his wares. Or perhaps this might do, as an interim measure."

Madeleine felt him take her hand and slide his own signet ring on to her finger. She smiled and kissed the ring, but removed it and put it back on his hand. "You let me wear this once before, and I was glad, because it helped me pretend to myself that that encounter was a marriage, of sorts. But now that we are to have a real marriage, let your ring stay where it belongs. I am so used to the touch of it on your hand that I would rather feel it there than on mine."

"As you wish. Your hand shall stay unadorned until I can buy you womanly diamonds. But what else might please you? I thought, perhaps, a fur cloak, something rich and soft to delight your hands? True, this winter is almost over, but there will be other winters."

Her fingers stroked Erik's blankets. "I remember a neighbour who had a fur stole. Squirrel, she said. It did feel nice."

"Then imagine a whole coat, and something better than squirrel. Otter, mink, sable – there are luxurious pelts to be had."

"Yes, I suppose so…" She fell silent.

Eventually Erik spoke again. "You know, Madeleine, facial expression can reveal much of what a person thinks, but most people's faces tell lies, saying what they want others to believe. I have noticed that your face does not lie. Sometimes, indeed, it can go blank, if you do not want me to know your thoughts, or if you are simply concentrating on something, such as your piano lessons. But when your features reflect your feelings, they do so honestly. I have wondered how you learned about expressions."

"That need not be learned, it is innate. They tell me that babies are born able to smile or grimace. But when my mother and I talked together, she encouraged me to touch her face, so that I could understand how the features of a sighted person express their emotions. She warned me that other people would, as you say, tell lies with their faces. I have never tried to do that, knowing that I would probably be clumsy and unconvincing. I cannot watch others to see how they react to me. But just now, you were talking about buying me some overgenerous gift. Are you telling me that you were reading my thoughts on my face?"

"Yes, I could understand your expression quite clearly. You are tempted by the coat, but are not sure about it, and I suspect that you do not want to offend me by refusing. Then you thought of something else which you _would_ like, and for a moment you lit up. But suddenly you went blank. I believe there is something you want, which I could give you, but you are reluctant to ask me for it."

Madeleine smiled. "You _are_ a magician!"

"Not magician enough to divine what it is that you want. I hope it is not to be released from our engagement." He spoke lightly, but Madeleine sensed an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice.

"No, never that," she replied. "But I have been thinking of the things you told me yesterday. The stage-hand who died, Buquet… did he leave any family?"

"I… I have no idea. Why do you ask? Oh… I suppose you wonder if others have suffered hardship because of his death. I never gave that a thought. As I have told you before, I have little sense of what people call right and wrong. For most of my life, there was myself alone on one side, and the whole world against me on the other. I could not see that I owed anything to anyone. You are different. You feel for others when they suffer harm."

"I imagine how I would feel if I had suffered the harm. If Buquet left a widow, or fatherless children, I wonder what has become of them. I wonder how much easier their lives could be made by money… by the price of a fur coat."

He sighed. "You give more thought to the welfare of strangers than they might give to you, in other circumstances. But, if it will make you happy, I will send someone to find out. If he left any dependants, then I will arrange to have a pension paid to them. If there is a widow, enough to support her for her lifetime. For any children, an allowance until they are grown up. Would that make you more ready to enjoy your own good fortune?"

"Erik, that would be a wonderful thing to do!"

"I am glad you approve. Even though money spent in such a way will reduce our own income?"

She laughed. "I think that you are unlikely to give away all you have. But if such charity were to leave us drinking water instead of wine, it would taste all the sweeter when flavoured with justice." She paused. "The other man you told me of – Fonta, the singer – I suppose his family were well off?"

"As a star performer, he was well paid, although he also spent liberally. In equity, I suppose I should not neglect his family if I care for Buquet's. Fonta's wife is also a singer, but she is getting older, and her career… has been in something of a decline recently."

Madeleine was suddenly alert. "A decline… arranged by you?"

Erik drew a sharp breath. "You witch! How could you tell? I almost laughed at the memory, but I smothered the laugh, and I _know_ you could not have heard it."

"But your voice changed. There was a… a self-satisfied tone. Thinking yourself clever again. You have told me how you liked to rule the Opera House. I suppose she did not meet your exacting standards, so you had her elbowed out, although I don't see that that is anything to laugh about."

"But the way I did it…" He paused. "Oh, very well, if you are determined to know it all… I had told the management that she was not to sing a particular role, for I wanted Christine to sing it. But they gave Carlotta – the other woman – the part anyway. This was what she was expected to sing…" Madeleine heard Erik draw himself up on the bed, and take a careful breath. Then he sang a few lines of a soprano aria. She had heard him sing with a woman's voice before, but this was subtly different. There was something mechanical, something heavy-handed in the way the notes slotted together. He paused. "That was what the audience expected to hear. This is what they did hear – " He began the song again, but halfway through, his voice turned into a harsh, froglike croak. "The croaking was me, of course, but pitched to drown her own voice, and to sound as though it came from her throat. Even she believed it, and she could not continue."

"A clever trick. I'm sure it amused you. Tell me, how amused would you have been if someone had played a similar trick on Christine, and humiliated her in the middle of a performance?" Erik gasped, and seemed about to speak, but no words came out. Madeleine continued, "You see my point. Whatever dire punishment you would like to inflict on such a trickster, you deserve to suffer such punishment yourself, for the identical offence. Think about that for a while. So your victim's career went into a decline. And then you widowed her."

He sighed. "Madeleine, you make me very glad I have managed to live this long without a conscience. It seems to be a most uncomfortable trait to possess. But now I must live with yours. Very well. It is true that Carlotta has suffered financially because of me. Also, she has a growing son to educate. I dare say a few extra francs will not come amiss. As a sop to her pride, I could pretend that it was a legacy from an admirer. She had many in the past, although I was never one of them.

"Buquet and Fonta… they were, I suppose, innocent casualties. At other times I have engineered the deaths of men who were working against me, and you will not persuade me to make any amends for safeguarding my own life. Going back to my years of travel, there were other victims who may have been innocent, but there is no way now to make reparation for those. Will it content you if I make these arrangements for the families of Buquet and Fonta, and give you my promise that there will be no more murders?"

Madeleine kissed his hand. "Content me… delight me… warm my heart more than the finest coat ever made."

Erik drew her into his arms, and Madeleine nestled there, happy to have had the last word in the discussion. (But later, just before the wedding, he gave her a fur coat anyway.)

O-O-O

A week or so after that conversation, the Marquis sent a polite note, asking if he might visit them. By this time Erik was fairly nimble on his crutches, although still spending most of his time in bed. For the visit, though, he asked Madeleine to fetch his clothes, so that he could greet the guest properly. She brought down some of his clothes that would fit best over the splinted leg, then, at his insistence, stood aside and left him to struggle out of his nightshirt and into his undergarments by himself. He managed that, with some grunts and muffled curses, but then came a brief silence.

"Let me guess," suggested Madeleine. "You cannot manage to put the trousers on while lying down. But to stand up, you need the crutches, so you cannot bend down and you still cannot put them on."

"Sometimes, you minx, I swear you are only pretending to be blind. You see the problem, even if only with your mind's eye. Then what is the solution?"

"Surely it is obvious. You must let me help you. How many times have you helped me with things I found difficult?"

"This is not cooking, nor playing piano. It would not be proper…"

She laughed aloud, sat on the bed beside him and threw her arms around him. "Erik Lisle, listen to yourself! Just think for a moment of the things we have shared… and will share again when we marry. Compared to that, how improper can it be for me to help you into your trousers?"

He gave a rueful chuckle. "Less improper, I suppose, than if you were trying to help me out of them. And you have done that before, too, although I cannot remember the event."

"Perhaps that is just as well," she murmured, thinking back to the day when she had dragged him unconscious from the lake. Of course, she had to strip the wet clothes from him. And of course, she had to examine him for injuries. If a little curiosity had intruded into her care of him, well, that was her business. She stood up and stepped back. "Hand me the trousers. Then sit on the edge of the bed with your feet on the floor." When he did that, she knelt at his feet and, slowly and carefully, manoeuvred his feet and lower legs into the trousers without causing him undue pain. "Now take your crutches and stand up."

Again being cautious not to jar him, she slid the trousers the rest of the way up, in the process crumpling the lower part of his shirt about his waist. She tucked the shirt-front down into his waistband, carefully smoothing it over his belly and thighs without touching his more sensitive areas.

"Tactfully done," he observed. "I am not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed."

Grinning, she wound her arms round his waist and tucked in the back of the shirt, stroking his buttocks with honest sensuality as she smoothed the fabric. There was a quick movement as Erik pivoted on his crutches and his good leg. Madeleine found her back pressed to the wall, and Erik pressed to her front. "Behave yourself!" he scolded in a voice which utterly failed to be severe.

"You called me a minx, and a minx should be naughty. But I'll behave if you want me to."

"If I were not injured… and if we did not have a guest arriving within the hour… I might be tempted to see just how naughty you can be. But that must wait for some other day. Now, if you really want to, you may stroke my skinny derrière one more time, and then leave me to fasten my buttons… while I still can."

Madeleine laced his shoes for him, and he completed his dressing with tie and coat while perched on a stool. He wore a wig but left his face uncovered, since the Marquis had already seen it. At least the cuts from the explosion had healed.

"I am glad to see you recovering so well," said the Marquis, after greeting them. "I really thought that you should be in hospital, but you were so intent on returning home. Now I see that you were right."

"Our privacy is important to us," replied Erik. "We are both wary of attracting attention. But speaking of attracting attention, what is being said about the assassination attempt? I recall that you were left with a gaping hole in the front wall of your house. Surely people would notice…?"

"Ah. The police issued a statement that it was a gas explosion. Dangerous words like 'bomb' and 'assassin' were never mentioned. Oh, and the man who threw the bomb has been caught. The police, with added emphasis from the President, firmly told all the guests and staff to keep quiet about what really happened. For a wonder, the orders seem to have been followed. One or two confused rumours have been whispered, but in the main the event has remained secret, and the repairs to the house are almost complete. I am afraid, Monsieur Lisle, that the secrecy robs you of the accolade which you undoubtedly deserve for your actions that night. But perhaps you prefer it that way."

"Indeed I do. And, thanks to Mademoiselle Duval's quick thinking when the President spoke to us, I have already received all the reward I want."

"As have I," smiled Madeleine, stroking the diamond ring which she wore.

"So the wedding will go ahead? The President told me of that rather abrupt proposal, although he did not mention it to the others."

"It will, when I can walk unaided again. We have been discussing how best to manage it. Madeleine is all for making it a public event, letting everyone see us, in the hope that we could then stop hiding from view." Erik pressed Madeleine's hand. "Since my appearance is so much worse than her blank eyes, and I have experienced worse treatment because of it, I am less sure." He gave a wry smile. "Still, if the wedding should turn into a lynching, at least then I would have the fame which you think I deserve."

Madeleine looked anxious. "Erik, when you say things like that… I have to hope that you are joking. But I am never sure."

Erik touched her hand again. "Don't worry. That was a sample of my twisted humour. My past has soured me somewhat, but I hope for better things from the future."

"I wonder," considered the Marquis, "would it help if I attended the wedding? If I may be invited? If my wife and I came, with all the pomp and ceremony attached to an ancient family…"

"Your power and influence would lend legitimacy to the occasion," completed Erik. "Yes, indeed. I wonder if I could presume upon your kindness one degree further. My fiancée is an orphan, with no family. Would you consent to escort her down the aisle?"

"I would be honoured. Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes! Monsieur le Marquis, the honour is mine!"

He smiled. "I have sons, but no daughters. I shall enjoy being father of the bride. I must practise pacing to the Wedding March."

"But not Wagner," put in Erik. "It is not a favourite of Madeleine's. It will be something like this – " Swinging himself on crutches to the piano, he played a few bars of a processional march with a light and joyful sound.

"Why, that is beautiful! I have never heard it before."

"No one has, but Madeleine and myself. I have just started writing it."

He expressed admiration for the music, and they went on to discuss arrangements for the wedding. The Marquis undertook to provide professional musicians to play at the reception, and Erik supplied some music from his own library, to be used alongside popular tunes. The meeting continued much longer than any of them had expected, but eventually the visitor took his leave.

Later, Madeleine observed, "You are very quiet this evening, Erik. Are you annoyed that the Marquis wants to do so much? Do you feel you have lost the initiative?"

"No, it is not that. He could be a good friend to us, and I am pleased that he wants to be involved. But… after we had discussed music… when he had heard some of my own work… I saw him looking at me thoughtfully, once or twice. I had almost forgotten… he knows the Chagnys."

"Oh… and you think he might remember the stories about them… about the Opera?"

"I am sure he was not present, the night I was unmasked. He would have known me immediately when he saw me at his house. But now, he might be piecing together fragments that he has heard, about the notorious Phantom composer. I was boastful, too proud of my work. Still, it is too late to withdraw now. We must take what comes."

O-O-O O-O-O


	17. 17: Consummation

17: Consummation

While Erik used the downstairs room as a bedroom, Madeleine furnished his room upstairs as a bridal chamber. There was some interest in the town that the odd-looking, reclusive musician and his blind housekeeper were to be married. Erik had seldom been seen by the townspeople, and only when disguised by wig, beard and spectacles. Invitations went out to the limited acquaintances that they had in Capelle, to Erik's music agent, and to the President (who declined but sent good wishes). A local hotel was engaged to provide the reception, with instructions that anyone who turned up without an invitation was nevertheless to be admitted and catered for. They had agreed on an exercise in bravado.

Madeleine advised Erik against looking too much like his Phantom persona. Though he was immune now from prosecution, there would be unpleasantness or even hatred stirred up, if people made that connection. But nearly a year had passed since his public unmasking, and no one from Capelle had been there. He stepped from the hired carriage at the church, slim and elegant in a grey morning coat. His head was concealed by a wig of light brown, slightly curly hair, but his face was unmasked. Girard accompanied him as best man, ignoring the gasps and whispers from the waiting crowd.

A few minutes later, Madeleine arrived, escorted by the Marquis. She wore a simple, tasteful white gown, and carried herself proudly, her eyes uncovered. She and Erik had planned this demonstration together, knowing what people would say; that the only woman he could secure would be one who could not see him, and the only man who would endure her blank eyes would be one who could do no better. They treated it as a joke, knowing how perfectly suited they were, but still there was pain beneath the smiles.

Madeleine had hesitated about wearing white, but Erik was firm. "You have committed no sin. It was not your fault that you were violated. Indeed, when I think about that, I marvel that you can ever trust me or any man again. And the other time… you gave yourself to me, as you might give water to a man dying of thirst, because my need was desperate. It was an act of purest charity. There is no stain upon you, and on this day, I would proclaim that to all the world."

And so they made their vows before a small group of special guests, then braved the reception and the stares of the townspeople, hoping that this display would lay curiosity to rest. The musicians gave a sublime performance of Erik's work. By the third song, while the audience sat enraptured, the bride and groom slipped quietly away to their home.

O-O-O

They sat together in the living room, each thoughtfully sipping a glass of wine. There was no haste. The evening was to be savoured, like the wine. Madeleine spread out the skirts of her wedding gown around her legs, enjoying the touch of the fine fabric.

"Erik… I have never asked you. Once or twice, people have called me pretty. Am I pretty, to you? I would like to be."

"To me? Mmm… no. I would not call you pretty. I would call you beautiful. To see your face turned to me, so full of love and trust… Your features are agreeable, but your expression… that is true beauty."

Madeleine pressed a hand to her mouth. "You will make me cry… I should not cry, on my wedding day."

"If you do, then I shall kiss away your tears. Listen now – this is for you." He went to the piano, and played the melody he had written for her long ago. But that had been simple, for unskilled fingers. Now the same tune was there, but with the loveliest sophistication which he could give it. Madeleine moved to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. When the tune was done, he carefully closed the piano, stood and took her in his arms.

"For two years now, since you first came to the Opera House, you have borne with my demands and caprices. Now you have your reward, if reward it is. For I do not know what kind of husband I shall make. Why, I even neglected to carry you over the threshold when we came home."

"That would surely be superfluous, when I have crossed that threshold many times already."

"Well then…" Suddenly he picked her up in his arms. She gave a little gasp, and clutched his shoulders. "… Shall I carry you upstairs, to make up for the omission?"

"No, you will not!" Madeleine wriggled, forcing him to set her back on her feet.

"You look stern," he replied, "but I see a smile trying to escape. Perhaps you think the task is beyond me."

The smile did escape then, lighting her face. "I think… you wish to demonstrate your strength and vigour. And I think we should walk quietly upstairs together. Once in our chamber… you shall have all the opportunity you want, to prove your vitality."

Chuckling softly, he took her by the hand and led her upstairs. She sat at the dressing table while Erik unwound her hair from its formal coils and brushed it out. He had rarely had occasion to touch it before, seldom been able to run his hands through its long, soft waves. Stooping for a moment, he kissed her hair and pressed his face to it, then plaited it into the loose braid that she wore for sleeping. He unfastened her dress, but did not yet remove it, for she stood and waved him to take her place on the stool. Carefully easing the wig from his head, she laid it aside and combed out his own sparse hair. In the past he had neglected it, so it grew long and became tangled when pressed under a wig, but over time she had persuaded him to let her tidy and trim it. Her barbering was uneven, but no one would see it, and he had to admit that his head had become more comfortable under her care. And there was such reassurance in feeling her touch, soft and caring, while her hands told her all the worst that there was to know about his appearance.

Coming round in front of him, she undid his tie, and took his coat off. As she put it aside, he came to her and began to ease her gown off her shoulders. But at that point, she laid her hands on his chest and gently fended him off. "I know you can undress me, for you did it once before, as I did you on another occasion. But stripping another person is clumsy, not elegant or romantic. So go and divest yourself of all this…" She ran her hands down his sides. "And I shall do the same for myself, and when we touch again, let there be no walls between us."

As Erik removed his own garments, seeking to repress both eagerness and nervousness, he watched with interest as she unfastened her clothing. That one time when he had undressed her should have been memorable, but his mind had been clouded, and the details were hazy. At other times in their life together, he had seen her in nightgown and dressing gown, her hair braided as it was now, if she had had occasion to rise in the night. But female underwear still remained somewhat of a mystery to him. "I thought," he remarked, "that the purpose of the corset was to turn the human shape into something like a wasp. But yours lets you remain human. The sculptors of ancient Greece, seeking a model for the female form, would certainly prefer you to the wasps. As, indeed, do I."

"The corset has other uses, and it need not be painfully tight," replied Madeleine as she laid aside her own. "It supports the weight of the skirts. It supports… myself." A little self-consciously, she pressed her arm across her breasts, still covered by the chemise. "I know that some women – not many, but they court attention – seek to make themselves impossibly narrow." She touched her hands together, thumb to thumb and fingertips to fingertips. "They start tight-lacing in childhood, to shape the body. They stay corseted day and night. I cannot believe that that is healthy. It seems as strange to me as the custom in China where they bind the feet of little girls, so that the feet remain tiny lifelong. No matter that the woman is crippled, just so she looks the fashion. My mother would not let me wear a corset at all, until I was old enough to… to need the support. And then she told me not to lace tightly. She said that the only purpose for that was to attract men. And sometimes… attracting men is not wise…" Her voice died away.

Erik silently cursed himself. But how could he have foreseen that his gentle compliment would wake dreadful memories? He moved to embrace her, then halted, irresolute. With the image of that old terror in her mind, how would she react to a man's arms holding her? Very softly, he took her hand. "Madeleine… my dear… forgive me. I never meant to remind you – " But she threw herself against him, winding her arms round his bare torso, clinging to him.

"Not you, Erik. It was my own mind, being treacherous." Stepping back, she threw off her remaining garments and stood naked before him, spreading her arms to invite his gaze. "I have touched some of those ancient sculptures in museums, when the curators allowed it. If that is how I look to you, I am content." She laid a hand on his chest. "And… I have happier memories… of you. Your gift… Remind me of that, Erik."

He took her into his arms, with truly no barrier between, and she relaxed against him. His skin was cool to her warmth, and the contrast was piquant, exciting. She felt all the shape of him, pulsing, aroused, as she herself was becoming aroused. Her hands began to explore him, but he turned her about and swept her to the bed, carefully laying her down. Stretching himself beside her, pressing against her, he kissed her, again and again. His hand crept up to cup her breast, stroking and caressing, teasing the nipple erect with his fingers. Her arms were round him, her hands clutching his back as she pulled him ever closer. His mouth sought hers again, then he searched carefully with his tongue. Her mouth opened to receive him, as they shared that closeness of touch and taste which made her blindness of no matter.

Madeleine stroked down his body, to his hip and then around to cradle his erect maleness, but at that he pulled away.

"No… no, you'll make it too fast… we should not…" He panted for breath. "We did not hurry our wine, earlier. I do not want to hurry this…" He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. Madeleine relaxed back into the pillows, but took his hand and pressed it to her breast again.

"You are right." She smiled, breathing hard. "When I was a child… I always wanted to eat my birthday cake all at once. My mother tried to teach me… that slower was better."

"She was wise." Erik bent his mouth to her breast, gently sucking the nipple until she moaned and shuddered. "But you are wise, too. Madeleine… touch my face. Look at me, in your own way…"

She smiled again, and with both hands she stroked all of his face, then kissed his forehead, cheeks, mouth, knowing how her complete acceptance thrilled him. She kissed his misshapen head, and drew it down to rest between her breasts. His hand slipped over her belly to her thigh, fingers moving in small circles. She recalled how he had massaged her back, to ease a strain. This touch was like that, but more… oh, so much more… Then his hand probed hard, between her legs. She moaned, but he knew it was not pain, and carried on, lighting a fire within her.

"Erik – " It was a mere breath of sound, but he heard. He moved over her, and she opened herself to him. He entered her, but slowly, controlled, and she felt every inch of him crossing her threshold. Her hands dug into his back, and then he was moving within her, powerfully, faster, his need growing as hers did. Madeleine felt every thrust as a surge of pleasure, then, growing like a flower bud, that deeper rapture within her which suddenly burst into bloom. With a cry she arched her back, hearing him gasp out her name in his own ecstasy. They were both soaring… and then… and then peace.

Madeleine slumped back, all tension gone from her, feeling Erik relax too. His full weight was on her now, but they were still joined, and she did not want to lose the contact. After a minute or so, he drew himself up on his arms, and she tightened her hold on him. "I don't want you to leave me…"

"But you do want to breathe," he replied softly, withdrawing from her and turning to lie at her side, holding her to him. "The flesh has its limits, but the spirit does not. I shall never leave you."

"Then I have found my safe haven, in your arms."

They lay entwined, and slept for a short time, waking to find that Madeleine had been lying on Erik's arm, leaving it numb. He murmured sleepily that it did not matter, but she held and rubbed the arm until life came back to it. Then for a longer time they stroked and caressed one another, until passion woke again, and again was satisfied. Finally they settled to sleep, each with a care for the other's comfort.

Eventually Madeleine woke, refreshed. "It's early," Erik said softly. "Dawn."

"I know. I hear the birds saying so." She smiled, and reached for him. "The most splendid dawn I have ever known."

O-O-O

In some ways, their lives had not changed. Erik had his music, Madeleine her handicrafts, and as much of the household work as she chose to do, for Erik would engage any help which she asked for. Now, though, they shared the nights, going gladly to each other's arms, and that was change enough. So Erik mused, waking early one morning, turning his head to look at Madeleine as she slept at his side. She was prone to insomnia, he knew, but it seemed that he had found the way to make her sleep well.

Often, through his years of loneliness, he had imagined finding a woman who would share the ecstasy of passion with him. But why had he never foreseen the simple sweetness of sleeping together? Before knowing her, he had never been able to let himself sleep in the same room as anyone else (barring a few occasions when he had been injured or ill) let alone the same bed. Still, old habits can be hard to break. He could not fall asleep until she had, and he woke at her slightest stirring. But perhaps one day, the absolute trust which his conscious mind felt for her would percolate through to his instincts, and he would be able to sleep at her side, even when she was waking.

Ever since he had known Madeleine, Erik had found it curiously liberating to be with someone who could not see his appearance and judge him by it. Even after she had touched his face and learned of its strangeness, it was clear that her hands did not convey to her mind the horror which the eyes of others found.

Now he pondered on the difference in his feelings for her and those he had had for Christine. That had been a blazing passion, uncontrollable, devouring. For Madeleine… the emotion was gentler, a tenderness which healed instead of consuming. How had that crept up on him? He had known her for two years, at first as a mere convenience, like a piece of furniture. Later, perhaps, she was almost a pet to him, inspiring the kind of casual liking which he might have given to a cat or dog. As time went on, she became a trusted friend. True, sometimes her presence used to irritate him if he wanted to be alone. Or, if he was absorbed in his music, he could forget her existence altogether. But he was… comfortable with her. Had he ever in his life before been comfortable with another human being? He thought of the day she had helped him into his trousers, and smiled at the memory. She had made him laugh. Of course he had known how to laugh before ever Madeleine came into his life. But then he laughed at the triumph of his schemes, or the discomfiture of an enemy. To share a joke with a friend, in an amusing situation… that was surely a new experience.

He recalled the first time Madeleine had said that she loved him. Taken by surprise, he had chosen not to believe it. At that time, he had no thought of love with any woman but Christine. The love which Madeleine offered was spontaneous, unselfish, asking nothing in return. He had no idea how to deal with that, so it was easier to disbelieve it. But perhaps a seed had been sown in his mind, that love was possible for him, even love from an unexpected source.

Then, the night of the explosion… when he feared that his own action might have killed Madeleine… the dread of loss had knifed into him. In a blinding moment of revelation, he realised that he needed her as he needed the air he breathed. He might disregard her presence, but her absence would destroy him. Christine had been near the bomb too, but Erik had never given her a thought until he knew that Madeleine was safe.

And that had been the truth of what was in his heart. His dealings with Christine had been founded on lies and deceit. With Madeleine he had been honest; he had never taken the trouble to lie to her. If he had not told her from the outset that he was hideous and a murderer, he made no attempt to disguise or excuse those facts when they became known to her.

Nor had he ever used his mesmerising tricks on Madeleine, as he did on Christine. Madeleine's feelings for him were real, natural. Whatever connection Christine had felt for him was his own creation, as artificial as the clockwork toys he made. He had dreamed he could turn the lies into truth… but those were mad dreams, impossible of fulfilment. With Madeleine, all things were possible. Acceptance, kindness, forgiveness… love.

Now, if he could choose? If Christine stood before him asking to return to him? For a moment, the old longing tugged at him, but he stifled it. Finally, his mind was clear. The insane craving he had felt for Christine could only lead to anguish. They would never have made one another happy. Like calls to like. Christine had chosen the right man for her, young, honest, straightforward, without bitterness. And Madeleine? Only a little older than Christine in years, but with a world more experience of suffering and blight, maimed and marred by her sightless eyes. She could reach his mind, she was his true mate. He blessed the chance that had brought them together, and even more he blessed her tender heart which could know him for what he was, and still love him. He had begun, hesitantly, to speak words of love to her, at first as though he were exercising himself in a foreign language, trying to express feelings which were new to him. But her obvious pleasure at hearing him had warmed his heart, made the words flow more spontaneously. This love was not the fever of delirium which he had felt for Christine. This was breath of life.

Madeleine stirred beside him, and he continued to lie still, withdrawn to his own side of the bed, unwilling to disturb her. But her eyes blinked open, as they always did when she woke, although they saw nothing. She drew a deeper breath, turned her head and reached a questing hand to see if he was there. He caught her hand in both his own, and gently kissed it. "Good morning."

"Mmm," she sighed contentedly. "Good morning." She yawned, wriggled a little and came more awake. "But… it could be better, if you were closer. Why are you all the way over there? Trying to be alone?"

"I… did not want to wake you. My touch… is cold. I learned that long ago. People flinch from contact with me."

Turning to face him, she reached out to stroke his arm and shoulder. "Have I ever flinched from you?"

"No. But you are brave – and kind. You do nothing that might sadden me."

She continued to stroke his arm. "Erik, this is no pretence. I touch you because I enjoy touching you. But yes, you feel rather chilly. I suppose I must feel warm to you. Is that uncomfortable for you?"

"On the contrary, I enjoy heat. I like to bask in the sun, when I have the opportunity. Now I bask in your touch, a real pleasure. Yet I know I suck the warmth from you. I should not abuse your generosity."

She laughed. "Warmth is something I have in abundance. Too much, sometimes. Have you not noticed those times in the night when I must throw back the covers? But now I see a better way to cool myself. Come closer – " Pulling him nearer, she pressed close to him and wrapped arms and legs about him. "That refreshes me, like a welcome breeze. And it does not take very long for me to warm you."

He relaxed into her hold. "Then I accept the gift you offer. But with one proviso. You are blessed with good health, but there have been times when you were tired or not quite well. I have seen you huddle by the fire, or take a hot-water bottle to bed. Promise me that, any time you are unwell, you will wrap yourself up warmly. I shall do the same, so that my touch does not chill you. And I shall not importune you for marital favours at such a time."

Madeleine kissed him. "You are very good to me."

"Pure selfishness," he replied with a smile. "I have just been considering how valuable you are to me. Of course I must look after you."

She nestled closer, running her hands over him. Her fingers found a ridged scar behind his shoulder. "You have had… an eventful life," she murmured. "If you ever want to tell me about it, I'll listen. But if you do not, then I shall not pry."

"What is there to tell? People can be cruel. You know that as well as I, and I have no wish to sadden your kind heart with details. You may be sure that any pain given to me was repaid, with interest. But that is the past, far in the past. Let us forget such things." Taking her in his arms, he tried to distract her from unhappy thoughts, and succeeded very well.

The first Sunday after their wedding, they went to church together, Erik wearing his wig but unmasked, Madeleine in a neat blue gown, her eyes uncovered. Privately, each had their own opinion about a God who allowed innocent children to be born blighted, but churchgoing was normal behaviour, and they would try to be normal if the townspeople allowed it. As they left the church, the priest spoke a few words of greeting and well-wishing to them. A nervous-looking woman approached as he did so, and asked to be introduced.

"Of course. Madame Lisle, Monsieur Lisle, this is Madame Chevalier, who lives with her family in the Rue des Champs."

"Madame… Monsieur… I have no wish to intrude, but I would be grateful if I may speak with you for a few moments."

"Certainly. Perhaps we should step aside from the door." Erik drew Madeleine's hand through his arm, and with a courtly gesture, indicated to Madame Chevalier that they should move along the path.

A little reassured by his polite manner, unaware that he had mainly learned the moves by watching actors on stage, the lady walked with them. Madeleine, sensing her uncertainty, asked, "Can we help you in some way, Madame Chevalier?"

"I… I am not sure. It's my son, you see… Well, I have two children. My daughter is nine, and my son is six. But my son was born blind. We have tried to keep him safe, but it's hard to know what is best for him."

"I understand," replied Madeleine. "You would ask me what it is like to live blind, and how you may best help your son."

"It is an imposition… I am sorry…"

"No need to apologise," put in Erik. "It is a fair question, but one which requires time to discuss, and this may not be the best place. Are your children here?"

"In the carriage, with my husband. He thought I should not… should not intrude, but…"

"It is no intrusion, believe me," Madeleine reassured her. "I would be glad to discuss it. Perhaps we could meet with you and your husband…" she thought for a moment. "The Hotel du Lyon? For tea this afternoon?" She and Erik were known at the hotel, and the staff would not raise difficulties. This woman's own servants might be a different story, while Erik and Madeleine had no maids to wait upon visitors. They arranged a time, and Madame Chevalier departed for her carriage, while Erik and Madeleine walked home. Erik had once asked Madeleine if she would like a carriage of her own, but with a long-held habit of economy, she dismissed the idea. They lived within walking distance of Capelle, and could hire cabs if necessary.

Later that afternoon, the four of them sat around a table. Monsieur Chevalier was clearly uneasy, both with Erik's presence and with the discussion of the private family trouble, but his wife found it a relief to be able to talk about her son to a sympathetic listener.

"You said he is six," recalled Madeleine. "How much has he been taught? Does he know his ABC?"

"Oh yes, he can recite the alphabet…"

"But what is the point?" put in her husband. "He can never read or write. It is just a meaningless chant to him."

"I was taught with letters made of wood," answered Madeleine. "Get him some, teach him the names of the shapes, and how to spell simple words. The first time he lays out a word of his own choosing, and you say what it is, he will be delighted. Soon he will realise the limits of the wooden letters, and then you must find a Braille teacher for him."

"Braille? How does it work? Is it any use?" asked the husband doubtfully.

Madeleine rummaged in her bag and produced the small frame with which she could write short Braille notes. "Let us demonstrate. Erik, would you mind leaving us for a few minutes? Take a turn or two in the garden."

Erik smiled. "Four days married, and you are tired of me already? Very well, I understand." With a light touch to her arm, he rose and went away.

When he had gone, Madeleine went on, "Now, Madame Chevalier, give me a message to write. You will see that this is slower than a sighted person with pen and ink, but nevertheless it works."

Madeleine punched the message into the paper, then put it down on the table. Erik, glancing in through the window, saw that she had finished, and rejoined them. Taking out a handkerchief, he blindfolded himself before taking the paper and running his fingertips over it. "With faith, we can move mountains." He removed the blindfold. "Very inspiring."

Madame Chevalier glanced sidelong at her husband. "I was tempted to use, 'none so blind as those who will not see.'"

But he smiled. "Very well, you win. We will find specially-skilled teachers, and educate the lad to the best of his abilities."

"Yes," agreed Madeleine. "Think about what he can do, not about what he cannot."

"Have you tried to find out if he is musical?" added Erik. "Not lessons, not yet. Give him something simple, a penny-whistle or a toy xylophone. You will find out soon enough if he wants to make music, or simply to make noise."

After that, the Chevaliers were cautiously friendly, and told others that the Lisles, though an odd-looking pair, were civil enough and need not be avoided. Erik and Madeleine would walk in the park on fine afternoons, and after a while the curious stares gave way to more friendly greetings.

But things were not always so easy. Erik noticed the people who crossed the road to avoid them, or made signs to ward off the evil eye, or quickly drew their children away. He did not tell Madeleine about these things, but he could not prevent her from hearing when a young man, egged on by his companions, shouted insults at both of them from across the park. Madeleine's hand tightened on Erik's arm. They continued to walk, but Erik fixed a hard stare on the youths, who came no closer, edging away with a poor pretence of nonchalance.

For some time after that, they avoided the park, and a spell of wet weather provided a convenient excuse. But Erik went out alone, frequently, by day or night, always disguised. Madeleine worried, but he did not explain. If he did not want to tell her, it was no good asking. She thought that he would not lie to her, but a flat refusal to answer would be painful for both of them.

Late one evening, however, Erik came home in a perceptibly cheerful mood. "I think, my dear, we may walk in the park on the next sunny day, and not be harassed again."

Madeleine did not echo his good cheer. "Erik, what have you done? What has happened?"

"Oh, nothing very much. A slight accident befell that loud-mouthed bumpkin we encountered. He was struck on the head by a broken tile sliding from a roof."

"Erik! You could kill someone like that!"

"It was only a small piece of tile. Nicely calculated. It caused a scalp wound, which bled, as scalp wounds do. I'm afraid the flowing hair he takes pride in will have to be cut short until the cut heals. And his new white linen suit will never be the same again. But now, he and his friends may pay attention to the strange whispers they have heard, whispers that it is bad luck to offend… what was it?... gargoyle devils."

"And dead-eyed she-demons."

Erik dropped his manic banter, and drew Madeleine into an embrace. "I am sorry you had to hear that."

"It was only words. Do words merit bloodshed?"

"Madeleine, I have known people like that since before you were born. If you permit them to throw insults unchallenged, soon they throw filth, or stones, or fire. Then they reach for guns. We must defend ourselves from the outset, if we wish to stay here."

Madeleine thought of the replies she might make. She could say, 'I seized the chance to get you a fresh start, a clean record. Would you throw that away?' She could say, 'You were gambling with death, yours as well as his. Keep doing that, and one day you will lose.' But she had married this man knowing well what he was, capable of violence, fanatical about self-preservation. If she had begun to let wishful thinking cloud her reason, to think of him as 'ordinary' – that was her fault, not his.

She relaxed into his arms, and sighed. "Erik, I accept what you say. But please – take care. Remember that I need you."

O-O-O O-O-O


	18. 18: A Visit

18: A Visit

They encountered the Chevalier family one day, and Madame told them of the lessons they had arranged for little Pierre. "You were right about the wooden letters, Madame Lisle. He has taken to them very well. He knows the names of all the letters, and has started forming simple words. Oh, and Monsieur, we bought him a penny-whistle as you suggested, and he likes it very much. He does try to play tunes, not just make noise. He says that one of the notes is not right, but I expect it is just his lack of skill."

"Perhaps not," replied Erik. "Those instruments are mass-produced, and may not always be perfect. If I may look at it some day, I will give you an opinion. Music is, after all, my profession."

"Why, that is kind. He has it with him now. It stays in his pocket." The two children were playing at a little distance on the grass, and Madame Chevalier called them to her. The girl stared at Erik, but had good enough manners not to comment. "Pierre," said Madame Chevalier, "this kind gentleman knows about music, and he says he will look at your whistle and see if the notes are proper, or not. Will you give it to him?"

"Here you are, Monsieur." He pulled it from his pocket. "It does this…" He played each note, then repeated one of them. "That one is wrong." Not knowing where Erik was standing, he held up the whistle for him to take.

"Thank you, Pierre. I think you are right about that note." Erik played a more confident scale on the whistle, and the off-key note sounded clearly. "I could mend that for you, if you would allow me to take the whistle home. It needs a small adjustment to the hole. It would not be difficult."

"And then will it play properly? Could you play a tune on it, Monsieur?"

"I expect so." Erik thought for a moment, seeking a melody that would avoid the flat note, then played a lively air which set the children clapping, and turned the heads of passing adults. "But if you want to play it like that, you will have to practise for a long time."

Pierre wanted to have his whistle mended immediately, but was unwilling to part with it, so the whole party took the Chevalier carriage the short distance to Erik's house. Erik took the whistle to his work-room, while Madeleine offered wine to the adults and milk to the children. After a few minutes, Erik returned the whistle to Pierre, who played a scale, now in tune. Erik took the boy's hands and adjusted his grip a little. "You will find it easier this way. But you are blowing too hard on the first note, then you run out of breath before the end. Try to start more softly, and keep the same softness all the way through." Pierre's next try was better.

"You're very kind, Monsieur," said Chevalier. His wife added diffidently, "I wonder… do you ever give music lessons?"

"No," replied Erik immediately. "I am mainly a composer. But there are good teachers to be found, when Pierre is ready for that."

When the visitors had gone, Madeleine asked Erik, "Have you ever thought about teaching?"

"I might teach, if I found someone with sufficient talent to repay my efforts. That child? No, he is nothing special. And I do not wish to commit so much of my time. If I want to teach… you shall be my victim! Have you been practising, Madame…?"

"No, Maestro, because you monopolise the piano for so much of the time. And when you are not playing, I would rather be with you than at the keyboard."

"Ah. A fair point. We shall see what may be done."

O-O-O

The Marquis came to visit them every few weeks. He was amiable company, bringing gossip from the capital, and enjoying the quiet country air. One day, he remarked, "My wife was saying that she would like to meet you again. She has not seen you since your wedding day. We wondered if the two of you would care to pay us a short visit in Paris."

Erik hesitated. "That is very kind of the Marquise. And I assure you, Madeleine and I have not forgotten your courtesy in attending our wedding, lending dignity to what might otherwise have become a sideshow." He gestured briefly at his face. "But we… are not accustomed to the social circles in which you move."

"I understand that," the Marquis replied. "And it is not our wish to embarrass you in any way. But if we did you a small favour by attending your wedding, you did us the somewhat larger favour of saving our lives, the night of the bomb. That, also, is not forgotten. Now, knowing your preference for living quietly, this was our suggestion; come up to Paris some morning, and spend the day with us at the entertainments, shops, museums, any facility which you may not find in this small town. We might attend a concert in the evening. You could return home the next morning if you so wish, or stay somewhat longer if you have not wearied of the capital. It would be entirely your choice whether we introduce you to friends of ours, or if you prefer to be our only guests during your stay."

Erik glanced at Madeleine. She was quiet, leaving the decision to him, but she looked alert and interested.

The Marquis continued, "Baecker and Kuhn are playing in Paris in two weeks' time, a performance not to be missed. I already have a box reserved. I confess, Monsieur Lisle, it would please me to attend this concert with a musician of your ability, with whom to discuss it afterwards."

"That would be worth hearing," Erik agreed. "You understand, Monsieur, that if I go into the city, I must be masked or disguised, and it would be better to avoid meeting your friends. But Madeleine gets few chances to browse in the shops, and I dare say she would enjoy that. I must do my best not to alarm the other customers."

Madeleine was growing more animated at the idea. "Perhaps, if Monsieur le Marquis would be good enough to send a servant here in the morning, I could be conducted to the city, and have a pleasant chat with the Marquise about clothes and furniture and other such womanly concerns. Then you, Erik, could join us in the evening for the concert, and be spared the tedium of the dress shops. Would that be agreeable?"

Both men were satisfied with the suggestion, and they arranged dates and times for the outing. When the day came, one of the footmen who had escorted Erik home when his leg was broken arrived in good time, with the Marquise's own maid, as Madeleine's guide. Erik sent her off with good wishes for her day out, satisfied that she was well attended.

Madeleine had half-expected that these upper-class servants would treat her with veiled contempt, as the poor associate being condescended to by the noble family, but they were respectful without being obsequious, unused to dealing with blind people but ready to give her whatever help she needed. Of course, as servants of the house, they probably knew the full story now of the assassins whom Erik had thwarted, and of the carnage which would have ensued had he not been there. At any rate, they made her journey easy, and in due course took her to the Marquise's sitting room.

"My dear Madame Lisle," was the warm greeting. "How good of you to come. Now, I dare say you would like some tea after your journey, and you can tell me about your life in Capelle, and then we can plan how to spend our day."

Madeleine allowed herself to be made comfortable, and exchanged pleasantries. From her brief meeting with the Marquise on her wedding day, she remembered her as a warm-hearted woman, not as intelligent as her husband, but equally good-natured. That impression was confirmed now. Perhaps, in offering hospitality to a chance acquaintance who was much her social inferior, the Marquise was seeking to introduce a little variety to her own life, as well as paying a debt of gratitude, but Madeleine had no objection to amusing her hostess to the best of her ability. All that the Marquis and Marquise knew of Erik was that he had chosen to leave his past behind, and now made his living from music. If they suspected criminal activity in his old life, that had given him the means to forestall the deadly attack in their house, and they were not inclined to ask questions about his past.

"Life in Capelle is very agreeable, especially now," explained Madeleine. "I find that, being married, I have gained a certain status. Previously I lived in Erik's house as his housekeeper, but inevitably there were those who put a different interpretation on the arrangement. Now I am unquestionably a wife, and moreover, my husband and I are established as having powerful friends, yourself and your husband. You obliged us greatly by attending the wedding as you did."

"Well, if we did, my dear, it is nothing to the obligation that your husband laid on us on that terrible night. Now, what would you like to do today? Perhaps there are shops in the city that you would like to visit? I would be happy to be your guide."

"If it is not too much trouble, I would like to order one or two new dresses. There is a good dressmaker in Capelle, but she works from printed patterns, and of course I cannot see the designs. But the bigger stores here keep sample gowns which I can touch, and understand what it is that I am ordering."

"I would be delighted. I enjoy shopping for dresses, but I hardly need any more for myself, at least until the next change in fashion."

"Thank you. But please remember – I am wife to a successful professional man, but I am not a Marquise! I must dress to my station."

With that agreement, they browsed in some of the bigger stores, attended by maid and footman. The Marquise assisted Madeleine with advice on colours. She also offered to buy the new gowns, but Madeleine politely declined; Erik had provided her with sufficient money for her needs. They returned to the house for a light lunch, for which the Marquis joined them. In the afternoon he went out again, to attend to some business matters. The Marquise showed Madeleine her collection of small figurines in porcelain and bronze, which Madeleine handled carefully and with interest. While they were thus engaged, the butler entered and announced, "The Vicomtesse de Chagny, Madame." Madeleine's hands tightened on the statuette she held, which fortunately was bronze and not china.

There was a light step on the threshold, and the well-remembered voice said, "I just stopped by, my dear Marquise, to return the book which you lent me. Oh, but I see you have company. I did not mean to intrude."

"You are always welcome, child. This is my friend Madame Lisle. Madame Lisle, Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny."

Carefully setting down the bronze figure, Madeleine stood up and curtseyed in the direction of the door. "Madame la Vicomtesse," she murmured, and sat down again, catching a sound of indrawn breath from Christine.

"Madame… Lisle," Christine replied after a moment. "But I fear I have interrupted you. I should not stay."

"Oh, just for a moment," the Marquise protested. "I must find you the second volume of that book to take away with you, since you are here. Please sit down. And, Madame Lisle, I am sure you will excuse me for a few minutes while I find it." Madeleine heard her leave the room and close the door.

"Madeleine…?" began Christine. "I'm not mistaken, am I? You are Madeleine…?"

"Yes, I am. But things have changed, Madame la Vicomtesse."

"Christine, please. Considering where and how we last met, we should not be formal. Madeleine, there are some things which I have very much wished to know. I think perhaps you could tell me."

"Very well, Christine. There are some things I might be able to tell you. But there are also secrets which I am honour-bound to keep." Madeleine knew that this chance meeting would arouse Christine's curiosity. She tried to think how little she could tell her, yet satisfy her enough that she would not go searching. The last thing she wanted was for Christine to come disturbing Erik's hard-won peace of mind, and yet it was natural that she should wonder about his fate.

"Were you there, that last night, beneath the Opera House?" Christine asked. "I did not see you…"

"I was there, in my master's house. Though I cannot see, I heard all that passed. Other things I discovered later. My master did many evil things that night. He killed a man. He kidnapped you. He took your Vicomte prisoner and threatened to kill him, to coerce you into agreeing to marry him. All this he did, and then he did the one good thing, perhaps the best thing he had ever done in his life. He let you both go."

"Yes." Christine paused. "He set us free. He realised that Raoul is the man I love. For Erik… for my teacher? Respect, gratitude, pity… fear. But when we left… he seemed a broken man. I cannot help wondering what happened to him. The people searched, but found no trace of him. They found all the signs of habitation in his house, and yet it was as deserted as the _Mary Celeste_ , the abandoned ship. Can you tell me… did he live?"

"Yes, he lived." Madeleine paused. "It was not easy. He made up his mind to go away, to build a new life elsewhere. But first, he provided for me. He found a place for me in the household of a kind man, who is now my husband. I was always loyal to my master, and he valued loyalty." Madeleine could not let Christine know that she was married to Erik, for then Christine might realise that he could not be far away.

"Do you know where he went, what he did?"

"Even if I did, I could not tell you. Those are not my secrets. But I can tell you… my own beliefs. I believe he lives still, far from here. I believe he is happy. Whether that gives you comfort or unease, I do not know."

"If he is happy… then I am happy for him. I do not need to seek him out, or to know more of him. That is enough. Thank you for telling me this. Can I do anything for you, Madeleine?"

"Just… leave me alone. And leave him alone. Forget the past. I mean no disrespect, but it is better if we go our separate ways."

"I think that you are right. I remember, you were always wise. And you gave me good advice before, at a time when I had not been wise. I shall do as you say. Now, we should be speaking on indifferent matters when our hostess returns. Do you like her little bronzes…?" They discussed the figurines until the Marquise returned with the book for Christine, who then took her leave.

Later in the afternoon, the Marquis came in with Erik, having taken the carriage to the station to meet his train. Erik bowed a greeting to the Marquise, who welcomed him in friendly fashion. She and her husband both noticed how Madeleine's face lit up at the sound of Erik's voice. They could not read his expression through his disguise, but saw how he glided to Madeleine's side and sat by her, touching her hand. Soon the four of them sat down to a light tea before the evening concert. While they were eating, the Marquise remarked to her husband, "Christine de Chagny called this afternoon, but she did not stay long." Erik became very still for a few moments, then, in a slightly strained voice, he asked Madeleine how her shopping had gone. When the meal was over, they were shown to the room prepared for them. Erik quickly put on his evening clothes, but it took Madeleine longer to change into her more formal gown. While they were changing, Erik said, "Christine must have recognised you."

"She did, but she said nothing to the Marquise. It happened that Christine and I were left alone together for a few minutes." Madeleine repeated the conversation she had had with Christine. "I hope I did right to say what I did. It seemed best not to let her know that you were near. I do not think she will pursue you, Erik, but she cares for your welfare. She wanted to know that you were well and happy, just as you have always wanted to be assured of her well-being."

Erik drew a long breath. "I think… that you managed the meeting as well as it _could_ be managed. But perhaps we should not come here again, even if invited. The Chagnys are friends of the Marquis. Such chance encounters would always be possible, and always unsettling to all concerned. Now, can I help you into that dress…?"

The concert, a recital for violin and piano, had a full house and an appreciative audience. Erik and the Marquis discussed it animatedly during the interval and on the way back to the house. Madeleine found it enjoyable, although for her some of the music was a little difficult to understand, even given the education she had had by living with Erik. The Marquise, probably the least musical of the four, nevertheless showed no sign of boredom, and was content that the evening was enjoyed by her husband and their guests. Back at the house, Erik and the Marquis went straight to the piano in the drawing room, where they took turns to play snatches of the music they had heard, while analysing how it had been performed. The Marquis did not attempt to equal Erik as a player, but was competent enough to illustrate the points he wished to make. Eventually they were distracted when the butler announced that dinner was ready.

The conversation became more general over the meal, then the Marquis spoke of a gala concert to be held later in the year, a prestigious event at Notre Dame to raise money for a number of charities. "Madame Lisle, you briefly met the Vicomtesse de Chagny this afternoon. She has been invited to perform. She was once a professional singer, but retired when she married into the Chagny family. Society did not make life easy for her at first, but now she is becoming accepted."

Madeleine sought a neutral reply, in case Erik needed a moment to recover his composure. "Society," she remarked, "holds the opinion that any woman who appears on the stage must be a harlot. And like all such sweeping statements, it is wrong as often as it may be right."

"Very true," added Erik. "Virtuous women can be found on the stage, and wanton ones in the audience. Monsieur, I do not mingle with society, but I follow news of the world of professional music. The story of the Vicomtesse is well known."

"Indeed. And I raise the matter now, Monsieur Lisle, because of your musical expertise. The Vicomtesse supports the cause, and wants to contribute. I have heard her say that she would like to have a new song for the occasion, something that has no associations with her past. I said nothing to her about you, but I was most impressed with your music at the wedding. And tonight you have once more shown me the depth of your knowledge and understanding."

Erik was silent for several seconds before replying. "I shall give you the address of my music agent in Paris. I do not deal directly with clients." He paused for a moment. "The lady's career was, of course, well documented in the Press. If she wishes a song written for her, she should go to the agent and state her requirements. A soprano voice, obviously, but solo or with chorus? Piano or orchestra accompaniment? Would she wish for just the music, or the lyrics also? Secular or religious? Sad or bright? Has she kept up with her training, or should the music make allowances for a possible lapse? Let her give as much detail as possible. The agent will explain terms. If I can write something suitable, it will be shown to her, and it is her choice whether to accept it." Erik picked up his wine glass and drank, with an air of having dismissed the matter, before going on, "Madame la Marquise, I am afraid that this evening's concert was not entirely to your taste, and your husband and I have neglected both yourself and my wife, in our absorbed discussion of it. Perhaps after dinner, if we may return to the piano, I can make amends by playing for you, music of your choice."

The offer was accepted, and later they gathered around the piano, while Erik played some popular tunes and traditional melodies which were more to the taste of the Marquise. At one point she sang a well-known folk song, in a pleasant but untrained voice, while Erik improvised an accompaniment for her. He did not sing himself.

Later, when Erik and Madeleine had retired to their room, Madeleine returned to the subject which was on both their minds. "Will you write a song for Christine? I think it would be a challenge, and although our life is pleasant, it offers you few challenges."

"If she asks… if I write it… then it must be the best work I can do. She wants no associations with her past? Then I must produce a song she will never recognise as mine. A challenge indeed." Erik moved to sit by Madeleine on the little sofa, and drew her close to him. "I need you to understand… it was always the music…" He hesitated, then went on, "I heard her singing one day, backstage at the Opera House. One of the other girls had asked her about a Swedish folk song, and Christine sang it for her. Sang part of it, anyway, and then had to stop because she was crying, because the song reminded her of her father. I remember being irritated at that. I liked the song, and there was something about her voice… I had wanted to hear more, and it annoyed me that she stopped for what seemed to me a trivial reason. What did I know of human affection, of the pain of loss?

"I began to teach her in secret, to find out what she was capable of. She never saw me; I was a disembodied voice to her. And her voice to me became a wonder, a treasure, the voice I had sought for. The voice which could show the world what music should be."

"But your own voice…" Madeleine suggested. "You can sing anything."

"Yes, I can," he agreed in dispassionate assessment. "But audiences do not just listen, they look. If they looked at me, they would stop listening. To let my music go out to the world, I needed Christine. I had such plans for all that she could do, with my guidance. And then… I spoiled it all. I fell in love with her – if it was love. Looking back, what I felt for her seems mere desire, possessiveness."

"But in the end," Madeleine reminded him, "you let her go. You sacrificed your own happiness for the sake of hers. I would call that love, whatever had gone before."

"Perhaps it was love, or simply despair, when I realised that she could never love me. Perhaps you think more kindly of me than I deserve." His arm tightened around her. "If I was truly unselfish, then I have been rewarded beyond my dreams. But Madeleine, please believe that I no longer want Christine as I used to. You have taught me the real meaning of love, shared love, shared life. I could never have had that with Christine, even if things had been different. I wanted to own her, not share myself with her. She would have been my most prized possession, but never a part of me, the way you are. But now… if I could write one beautiful song for her to perform to an audience…"

"It would complete what you started so long ago? Letting her voice take your music to the world?"

"Yes! Your mind sees so clearly, you understand me. I want this… but not if it will cause you pain. That price would be too high. Tell me not to do it, and I will abandon the whole idea."

"Erik, I can give you my love and my trust, and make a comfortable home for us. But I cannot share your music, not in the way that she could. If you have a chance to wake again that angel voice, you should take it. But…" she smiled a little, "be sure to get us tickets for the concert. For if this is to be your moment of fulfilment, that is something I _can_ share with you."

The next day they concluded their visit, thanked their hosts and returned to Capelle, relieved to be home. About a week later, the request for a song came from the agent. Erik had already been planning it, and now devoted himself to making it as perfect as he could. The words spoke of rainbows, and of how there was always hope beyond darkness. It could have been trite, but he kept the lyric simple, so that any listener could find it personally apt, and he wove all the beauty into the melody. In due course, the message came back that the song had been accepted, but he heard no more than that. The concert was still several months away, and the waiting felt long. He hoped that Christine had found a teacher who could bring her voice back to something like the splendour that he had once conjured from her.

O-O-O O-O-O


	19. 19: Disquieting News

19: Disquieting News

Madeleine felt his restlessness, and wondered how to distract him, but one day it was he who raised a new subject. "Madeleine… Have you ever considered moving to another house?"

"I…" She was surprised. "I hadn't thought about it. I have been happy here, and I think you have, too. But if you want to move… my home is not bricks and mortar, it is being at your side."

"You have never wanted somewhere bigger?"

"Do we need more space? Perhaps, though, if we have children…"

"What?" It was his turn to be surprised. "But… is that likely? You are young, but I am turned fifty, twice your age…"

"That is no barrier. Erik, did you never think of that? All these nights we share…? True, I have not conceived yet, but we are not long married. I have hope."

"Hope, do you call it? Would you want a child with my face, or your eyes, or twice-damned with both?"

"Why should that be? There was no history of blindness in my family, and you told me that there was none of disfigurement in yours. We each of us came as a painful shock to our mothers. If a child of ours was marked as we are, at least we would not be surprised, and I would love our child, come what may. I think, though, that he would be born whole and well. But Erik, consider this now. For if you decide you really do not want children, the only certain way is for us to live celibate. We did it before, for two years – excepting one memorable afternoon – but I confess I would not want to go back to celibacy now."

"Nor I." He took her into his arms. "It is just that I had not thought of it. You said once before, on that memorable afternoon, that I can be more blind than you, for something that I do not wish to see. Well, we shall take what fate sends, and I must draw courage from you."

"But you started to talk about the house. If not for children, then what? Do you want to leave Capelle and move elsewhere?"

"No, certainly not. We are known here, accepted after a fashion, and I do not want to start again in a strange place. But I have been thinking of how we might make use of more space. It would be useful to me to have a music studio with good acoustics, at a distance from the sitting room. I know you like hearing me play, but when I compose, in bits and snatches… that is tedious for a listener. And when my agent comes to discuss his latest commissions, I would like to have a place of business, and not have to invite him into our inner sanctum. Also, our rooms here are rather small, with not much space around the furniture. You have to feel your way about carefully. If we had larger rooms, we could lay them out with open walk-spaces, and I think it would be easier for you."

"Yes, that is true, although I would not put you to the trouble of moving unless you would also benefit. But how easy would it be to find such a house?"

"Perhaps easier than you think. Come with me." He led her into the dining room and seated her there. "Feel what is on the table."

Carefully she ran her hands over the table-top, and encountered a board the size of a tea-tray, with smaller wooden structures fixed to it. At first puzzled, she felt the angles and lines, then a smile lit her face. "When I was a child, I had a doll's house, but that opened at the front. I think this is a 'doll's house' open from the top. But you have not furnished it yet. Are you telling me that you have found a house for us, and made this model of it to show me?"

"Not quite. I made the model, but the house is not yet built. However, I have my eye on a site where it could go."

"What? Build a house? But… well… isn't that difficult?"

"Not for me. Did I never tell you how much of the Opera House I built? A little villa like this is easy by comparison."

"The Opera House? You? I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh, not all of it. I was a contractor during the building of it." At her uncertain expression, he explained, "Garnier had the commission to design the Opera House, but it was too vast a task for any one man to do alone. Contractors were sought who could take charge of sections of it. There was some rivalry amongst those wanting to be involved with the prestigious public areas. I was more interested in the foundations and cellars, as a technical challenge, and also for my own purposes. I was not known as an architect in France, but I offered some suggestions for dealing with the water which threatened to flood the foundations, and earned my employment in that way. My eccentricity of wearing a mask was tolerated because of the quality of my work. Some parts of the structure were designed by me, and I supervised the construction. But there are places there that I built with my own hands, at a time when work was suspended and there was no one to watch me."

"The lake house! That explains how you kept its secrets so well."

"Quite. My hands grew callused in those days, but I could still play instruments, so I did not care. Nowadays, I would employ others for the manual labour." He cupped Madeleine's face in his hands. "Not only because I am older, but because now I have a motive to keep my hands smooth."

Madeleine turned her head to kiss his palm, then bent his fingers and placed another kiss on the fingertips of his left hand, the one place kept hard by violin strings. "You can do anything with these hands, but they are better suited to music than to labouring." Releasing him, she returned her attention to the model.

"A bigger house… we would need more staff, servants living with us instead of the daily woman we have here."

"Yes, I know, and that would intrude upon our privacy. But here – " he guided her hand – "I suggest a separate wing for their quarters. They can be dismissed until wanted. And then, here," he indicated a different part of the model, "perhaps a small guest suite. I explained to the Marquis that, although we appreciated his hospitality, we are both rather uneasy about being away from home, because of the difficulties we have experienced in the past. But if we have suitable accommodation and servants, we could invite him and his wife to visit us here. I do not know if they would wish it, but I want to retain their friendship if I can. It gives us status."

"You _have_ been giving thought to this! How long have you been planning it?"

He chuckled. "Since you reminded me that you get little chance to practise your playing. Here, we have no space for a second piano. But listen, Madeleine. You know that sometimes I need to go into Paris to do business about my music. It worries me to leave you alone here. If we had staff I would be happier, knowing that you were safe. That would be worth the intrusion to me, although I do not know how you feel about it. I did wonder if you would like to have a proper lady's maid, who could keep you company when I am working, sort your wools by colour for you, be at your beck and call."

"Someone to read to me… yes, I have sometimes thought of that. A girl fresh from school, who could learn my ways. Will it amuse or annoy you, if I ask whether we can afford this house?"

"My ever-practical lady, I expected you to ask. Yes, we can. We have the Marquis's generous wedding gift as yet untouched. In many ways, building a new house would be a better investment than the rent we pay on this one."

They spent some time discussing Erik's models of the different floors. Madeleine had ideas of her own; he listened with respect and advised on their practicality. When they agreed the layout, Erik drew the final plans. At length, the site was purchased and building work began, though it would take some time to complete.

O-O-O

One day, they received an unexpected visit from the Marquis. He hurried through the usual civilities, clearly with something on his mind which he found difficult to say.

"You may not have heard… a street accident, an overturned carriage. The Chagnys. He escaped with slight wounds, but she… has lain senseless, in a coma since it happened, more than a week ago. The doctors do not know why she does not wake, but head injuries are mysterious and baffling."

"This is… sad, tragic," replied Madeleine after a moment. "But do they hold out any hope for her? Surely she is having the best of attention?"

"Oh, yes. De Chagny is distraught. Everything that can be done for her is being done. One expert says that familiar sounds can sometimes penetrate through such unconscious states, and call the mind back to wakefulness. De Chagny sits at her bedside and talks to her for hours at a time. Also, he has had a summerhouse in the garden converted to a hospital room for her, so that she may hear the songbirds, and the sound of the fountain she always liked." The Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room. "It is said… understand, the lady does not talk about her past, but… it is known that she was once an unregarded minor performer, and then she was taught to sing incomparably well. Some of the ballet girls talk about a mysterious tutor who was never seen. In the same way, they talk about the Phantom of the Opera, who terrorised the management into promoting Christine Daaé into starring roles, and who wrote such a wonderful part for her in his own opera. Then she vanished, and it was thought that the Phantom had taken her, but she reappeared in the care of the Vicomte. The Phantom, of course, was unmasked that night. Everyone agrees that his appearance was terrifying, but if you ask what he looked like, you will get a different answer from everyone whom you question." He ceased pacing and stood staring at the wall, not looking at either Erik or Madeleine. "It seems to me… if any voice could call Christine from her trance… then perhaps her teacher's voice might be the one."

Erik moved to stand close to the Marquis. "But does it occur to you, after all that happened, that her teacher's voice might frighten her into the darkness forever?"

The Marquis faced him. "I do not know. I only know… I like those young people. They are decent, warm-hearted… I wish I could help them, in this great trouble. This is all I could think of. But it is true that… back in those days… there was much to fear. I should not reawaken such things. She has had enough of death."

Erik drew a long breath. "And so have I, Monsieur. So have I." He glanced at Madeleine, sitting very still, saying nothing but catching every word. "However, even if… her teacher… were willing to try, he would not be admitted to her bedside. On the contrary, he would be hounded away with fury."

"Yes, I know." He paced across the room again. "Perhaps… I could get the Vicomte to leave her, for an hour or two. Another doctor with new ideas… I could arrange for them to meet at my house. But Christine would never be left unattended. And – " he paused to look straight at Erik, " – no harm must come to any, even a nurse or servant."

"That is understood. No harm. Perhaps a little inconvenience. Monsieur, you have given me a great deal to think about. Perhaps I may send you a telegram, asking only, 'When?' If you receive such a cable, will you send me the date and time?"

"Yes." The Marquis sighed. "But think well, Monsieur. I do not want to bring you into danger. Think well."

O-O-O O-O-O


	20. 20: Stirring the Embers

20: Stirring the Embers

Erik laid out the items which he wanted, ready to pack them in a bag. "Madeleine… would you come with me?"

"Gladly!" she answered in surprise. "But shall I not slow you down? I cannot climb drainpipes!"

"You are thinking of the night of the bomb? There are no drainpipes involved this time. But I have a feeling that it would be better if you came. You brought me good luck on that occasion. And…"

"If you invade the bedroom of another man's wife, it would look better if you had your own wife with you," she filled in with unflinching frankness. "Erik… if she should open her eyes… whom will she see?"

There was a soft sound of movement, then he replied, "Come and touch me. She must see the man she used to know." Madeleine moved closer and reached for Erik's face. She had handled the sculpted ivory mask before, but never while he wore it. She felt the lines now, how it smoothed the shape of his face, how this wig swept back in a pristine sleekness.

"In this guise, you are beautiful," she said thoughtfully. "But… not the Erik that I know."

"For the moment, into the bag with the Phantom mask. I leave here as Erik Lisle, reclusive composer. I can change when we get there." Madeleine ran her hands curiously over the coat, mask, wig and other things which he was packing, but stopped, startled, at the cold touch of a light pistol.

"You know what that is?" he asked.

"I have handled toy ones…"

"Well, don't be alarmed," he reassured her. "I do not expect to use it, and I promised the Marquis that no one would be harmed. I have modified that one so that it makes less noise than most, but no gun is silent. However, I may need it to intimidate Christine's attendants and get them out of the way. I have in mind a quieter method to deal with them, but one must always be prepared for contingencies."

Erik had hesitated for several days after the Marquis brought the news. He wondered if he was simply afraid of failing to get a response from Christine, or if it was the deeper fear that his presence might even make things worse. A message from the Marquis said that her condition remained unchanged. If Christine was deaf to Raoul, Erik did not really believe that she would hear him, but finally he knew that he had to try. He could not deny her this chance, slight though it was. Or perhaps… he could not deny himself the chance to say goodbye to her.

He had already inspected the house and grounds once by night, and Girard had watched in the daytime and reported on the routine movements of the occupants. In gathering dusk, the hired carriage dropped them in a quiet lane, then moved on to wait at the agreed rendezvous. There was a garden wall to be climbed. Erik helped Madeleine to the top, handed her the bag while he scrambled up and over, then eased her down. Only now did he don the Phantom's mask and wig. If by some miracle he could awaken Christine, she must know who came, the man who had once released her, and who might now release her from a different captivity.

Erik led Madeleine cautiously through the shrubbery until he had a view of the summerhouse. It had two rooms, one dimly lit, one brighter. His timing was good. A servant was just returning to the main house, having delivered a tray with the nurse's supper. A window afforded a glimpse of the bright room, a kitchen where the nurse sat alone to eat. At one point she left the table to look into the adjacent bedroom, satisfying herself that her patient was quiet, then she returned to finish her meal. Somewhere a cricket chirped, and the nearby fountain babbled in its basin. All else was hushed.

Crouched beneath the open window, Erik began to sing, a soft, wordless music that blended with the water noise and seemed part of it, a sound the ear strained after but could not capture. He had warned Madeleine of what he intended, and she had agreed to it, reluctantly, and yet with curiosity to hear his strange power put to use. Even forewarned, Madeleine felt her consciousness drift away, until Erik seized her wrist and dug his nails into her skin. She held on to the pain as the hypnotic song grew more pronounced, a promise of sweet dreams to a yielding mind. The nurse nodded in her chair. Erik slipped through the window, still singing, and loosely bound a scarf around the woman's head, holding a pad soaked with aromatic fluid over her nose and mouth. He waited for a minute or two until she slept soundly, and eased her into a more comfortable position, arms and head on the table. Then he went back to Madeleine and brought her in by the door.

"The nurse will sleep for at least an hour," he said softly, "unless that scarf is removed. I was prepared to bind and gag her, but this way is better."

In the next room, in soft lamplight, Christine lay in a white bed, a still, shrunken figure, her face gaunt. Her head was swathed in bandages, but it was likely that her beautiful hair had been cut off. Her breathing stirred the covers, and her face twitched in slight spasms. Erik whispered her name softly, pain in his voice, but she did not respond.

On a bedside table was a glass of water, fitted with a lid and drinking tube. It appeared, then, that she could at least drink by herself, even if she must be subjected to the indignity of tube-feeding. Erik explained what he saw to Madeleine. Between them, they steadied Christine's head and offered her the drinking tube, not wanting to deprive her of a service which the nurse might have offered. The unconscious woman sipped a little and swallowed automatically, then lapsed back into stillness. Madeleine sat at the bedside and held Christine's hand. Erik stood back and summoned again the tone which he had used when he first taught her.

"Christine, the voice must be warmed up to reach its potential. We shall begin with this exercise…" He vocalised up and down a range of notes, not a formal scale. Then he moved on to scales, exercises, the first songs that he had taught her. He demonstrated in his normal voice, then with little effort shifted to her soprano range and sang as he wanted her to sing. Madeleine was entranced, but she kept her attention on Christine, listening for any attempt at speech, feeling for any movement of the hand she held. _Please,_ she focused her thoughts on the insensible woman, _Erik has put himself at risk to try to help you. Please answer him…_

O-O-O

In the Marquis's drawing room, Raoul paced restlessly about. "But she shows signs of life," he insisted. "She is not like one dead. Sometimes her fingers twitch, sometimes a flicker of movement crosses her face. Then she will sigh, as though exhausted by such effort, and relapse into a deeper sleep."

"That is when my treatment can help," responded the doctor. "We can teach the unconscious brain that it is better to show these signs of life, by applying my method as she becomes quiescent."

"But what is this 'method' which you are so chary of describing?"

"I have to be circumspect. I have not published yet, and I do not wish others to steal my ideas. But to put it simply, we apply electrodes to the fingers and toes, connected to a bank of cells and a rheostat. When she is still, we apply a voltage. Signs of movement or effort on her part are rewarded by the voltage being reduced – " He broke off as Raoul swung to face him, fist clenched, and visibly struggled to restrain himself.

"You lunatic!" he shouted. "Do you think for one moment that I would permit – " He turned abruptly to the Marquis. "Did you _know_ what this charlatan had in mind?"

The Marquis was pale. "Not these details," he answered shakily. "I had just heard of him as an innovative thinker."

"Where traditional methods fail," persisted the doctor, "we must be open to new ideas. I can show you the good results I have obtained with animals."

"My wife is not one of your laboratory rodents! I will not have her tortured! Go back to your guinea pigs, or use your electrodes on yourself." He turned towards the door.

"A moment, please," put in the Marquis, glancing nervously at the clock. "Perhaps we should hear a little more about these results…"

"I have heard more than enough." The door slammed behind Raoul as he left.

O-O-O

For nearly an hour Erik persisted, speaking instruction, singing all the songs that he had shared with Christine, asking her for responses and waiting vainly for any sign that she heard. He could not safely stay for much longer… and then it was too late. There was a sound of movement in the kitchen, a man's voice exclaiming in surprise. The bedroom door flew open, framing Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He froze at the sight of surely his worst nightmare, the Phantom of the Opera standing at the foot of Christine's bed. Raoul made to leap forward, but was stopped by the sight of the pocket pistol which had appeared in Erik's hand.

"You!" spat Raoul. "You haunt us still! Can you not leave her in peace, even now?"

"Peace?" hissed Erik. "This living death? Is this the peace you want for her?"

"I want… I always wanted her happiness. You never gave her that. You used her, made her your puppet."

"I gave her glory! I could have – "

 _"Quiet!"_ Madeleine's voice cut shrilly across the room. "Be quiet, both of you! Listen! Listen…"

A thread of sound stirred the momentary silence, and it came from Christine's mouth. Hardly words, hardly music, and yet she was trying to sing. Eyes closed, breath labouring, some part of her spirit strove to communicate. The men drew closer, Raoul at Madeleine's shoulder, although scarcely noticing her, Erik on the opposite side of the bed. And Erik recognised the fragments of sound. It was the new song, her _Rainbow_ song. In the quietest voice, he picked up the melody and sang it with her. She seemed to find strength from his guidance. This whisper was a pale ghost of her real voice, but now the melody was clear. Madeleine moved aside and gently urged Raoul to take her chair, placing Christine's hand in his. Erik noticed Christine's eyelids flickering, and backed away, still singing just loudly enough to partner her in the song. If Raoul saw him move he made no sign, all his attention on Christine, softly calling her name. Erik took Madeleine's hand and led her back to the kitchen. Moving swiftly now, he released the scarf from round the nurse's face, picked up his bag, and the two of them faded out into the night.

Before they crossed the wall to the lane, Erik had changed again, back to Lisle, the Phantom's mask and wig packed in the bag. They returned to the carriage and began the journey home, all without speaking. Eventually Erik broke the silence. "The Phantom has sung his last song. But it was sung to a good end. Perhaps we should stop on a bridge somewhere and drop this bag into the river, laying the Phantom to rest."

But Madeleine took the bag from him and held it in her arms. "No. We can let the Phantom sleep. But if he is ever needed… he can wake again."

O-O-O

Some days afterward a letter arrived, addressed to them in the Marquis's handwriting. It contained only a short note from him, explaining that he had been asked to forward another letter, enclosed. Erik broke the seal on the inner envelope, read it through silently, then aloud to Madeleine.

 _Monsieur,_

 _I recall an evening at the home of the Marquis, when disaster was averted by a mysterious stranger, swift in action and deadly with a strangling noose. I believe that the Marquis will know where to deliver this letter. I do_ **not** _know, nor do I wish to find out._

 _I think you are entitled to know that Christine gains strength daily, and hopes to be well enough to sing at the concert. She has no memory of the dark days when she was lost to us, nor of the voice which called her back. For her peace of mind, I shall not tell her whose voice it was._

 _Christine once told me of an "angel" who visited her. When I met him, I would have called him a demon. But that night in the garden house, you were truly an angel to her – and even to me, in that you brought her back to me._

 _Christine loves her Rainbow song, but she has been keeping it a secret, to surprise the audience at the concert. Who knows the song? She and I, her accompanist, the music agent, and of course the composer. That night, I saw and heard that the Phantom of the Opera knows the song. That can only mean that you are the composer. If the song is your farewell gift to her, it is a very beautiful one._

 _Monsieur, I trust you will take no offence if I hope that we never meet again. But you have my heartfelt thanks for your help and (what I never thought to say to you) my good wishes for your future._

 _Raoul de Chagny_

O-O-O O-O-O O-O-O

 _(End of Part Two)_


	21. 21: Mistress and Maids

PART THREE: OPENING DOORS

21: Mistress and Maids

Their new house, though not huge, had spacious rooms which flowed into one another. Madeleine, guided through by Erik, found it easy to remember the layout, and enjoyed the extra space. They had not over-filled it with furniture, unlike their fashionably cluttered rented house, and having clear spaces where she could walk with confidence gave Madeleine an unexpected feeling of freedom. Erik's music studio was designed as an orangery opening on the garden, with glass panels mounted in white arches, and the promise of fruit trees for the future. The acoustics were all that he had hoped.

They employed a staff of two maids, a manservant and a cook, chosen because all were willing to ignore Erik's appearance, and be helpful to Madeleine. Madeleine had less housework to occupy her now, but instead she had a sitting room with her own piano, so that she could practise and play her simple tunes, without distracting Erik from his work.

After consultation with a local schoolmistress, a girl called Annette was hired to be Madeleine's personal maid. Daughter of farm workers, the teacher had persuaded her parents to let her stay on at school, because she was bright enough to get a good job if she had some education. Now that she was fifteen, her parents were stubbornly insisting that she get out and earn her keep. But to be a lady's maid was a higher-status job than labouring, and Annette was glad to get it. She loved books, and was delighted to find that one of her tasks would be to read to her employer.

Privately, though, Madeleine had doubts about this change in their lives. How would she manage as mistress of such a household? She had been happy enough in the cottage with just the two of them. Of course, some domestic tasks were simply chores, done from necessity, and she was relieved of that now. But there had been an intimacy when she and Erik had done everything for themselves, and that was lost. Still, she could not express this to him. He was, she knew, trying to make life easier for her, and she could not be ungrateful. Besides, he clearly took great pleasure in his new music room, and she could do nothing to tarnish that.

Their first visitors were the Chevalier family, who had been friendly towards them since Madeleine had offered some advice on educating their blind son. The adults admired, the children romped. Pierre played his penny-whistle in the music room, enjoying the acoustics.

"He has three whistles now," confessed his mother, "in different keys. He is beginning to ask what else he might play. We have a piano, of course, but neither my husband nor I are musical, and Pierre can make no sense of it."

"He is very young, and his hands are still small," pointed out Erik. "He could probably hold a piccolo, but he would find it frustrating trying to get a sound from it. It is different from blowing into a whistle."

"Monsieur," began Nicole, the ten-year-old daughter, as she stood by a table where Erik's violin lay in its open case. "May I hold your violin?" She had always tended to avoid Erik, troubled by his face, and this was the first time she had spoken directly to him.

"You may, provided you are very careful with it."

The girl glanced at her hands. They were clean, but all the same she scrubbed them on her skirt, to lessen the chance of fingermarks on the polished wood. Then she picked the instrument out of the case, holding it in both hands and turning it to catch the light. "It is very beautiful." She held it out to him. "Would you play something? I love the sound of violins."

Willingly enough, Erik played a short melody. Something in the girl's wistful face caught his attention. "Would you like to hold the violin, Nicole? Hold it properly, I mean?" She nodded. "Sit here, then…"

He showed her how to hold it between chin and shoulder, placed her right hand on the bow, and guided her first stroke across the strings. Then he let her try by herself. Predictably, her attempt produced an unpleasant scrape. Frowning in concentration, she slightly shifted bow angle and movement, until the sound smoothed out to a recognisable note. She tried bowing different strings, learning how to make a pleasant sound, never reverting to the scrape. Erik watched her keenly, and Madeleine listened in surprise, remembering her own unsuccessful efforts to get anything like music from the instrument.

"That is enough for now, Nicole," said Erik. "Please put the violin back in its case."

"Can I try it?" piped up Pierre.

"Not until you grow," replied Erik. "That is a full-sized violin, and it is really too big even for Nicole."

Later, the children ran around the garden, while the adults had coffee. "Has Nicole played a violin before?" asked Erik.

"No, she has never had one in her hands," replied Monsieur Chevalier. "Couldn't you tell? She was hardly playing music on it."

"Compared to the noises produced by most people on their first attempt, she handled it very well. It is possible that she has a natural aptitude." He thought for a moment. "Madame Chevalier, once when we were discussing Pierre and his whistle, you asked if I ever give music lessons. I said no, rather abruptly, I'm afraid. I was involved in another project, and did not want distractions. But if Nicole should express an interest in learning violin…"

"Erik, you cannot pick favourites with children," Madeleine put in. "If you teach one, teach both. And if one proves to have more talent than the other, you cannot favour that one."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Very well. I do not wish to cause familial disharmony. Madame, Monsieur, I leave it to you. We can discuss this further if you wish."

O-O-O

One day, Madeleine realised that one of the maids was being clumsy and slow about her work. It was not hard to guess the reason, and she considered how to deal with the matter. Perhaps it was better to be direct; she had always had a practical outlook. So one afternoon, she gathered Annette, the two housemaids and the cook in the kitchen. By previous arrangement, Erik had engaged the manservant in some work elsewhere.

"I have a word to say to you all," she began. "We are all women here, and we know that, some days, a woman is not at her best." There was some uncomfortable shifting among the others. This was not something normally discussed. Madeleine went on, "I have a rule about this. If one of you should come to me and say that you are a little unwell, consideration will be shown. You need not give any further explanation or excuse. 'A little unwell' shall be understood. We will rearrange the tasks, perhaps leave some jobs undone for a day or two, to lighten the load. If you feel the need to lie down or take medicine, that too will be arranged. You are servants and I expect service, but you are not slaves. Remember that I am also a woman, and I can be approached in this matter."

The cook, a brisk woman nearing forty, felt it incumbent on her to reply, as the maids were all pink with embarrassment. "That is very fair-spoken, Madame. Only… well, I know nothing against anyone here. Let me put it this way. Some places I have worked, I have known girls who would take your words as licence to spend one week out of four in bed."

"Yes, you are right of course, Madame Brun. And as I am blind, it is hard for me to judge if someone is really ill, or merely malingering. So, should I ever have the misfortune to encounter such a servant as you describe, my only course of action would be to dismiss her. I would give her as good a reference as I felt able to write, and my personal recommendation that she find a less strenuous employment."

Brun nodded. The lady was not such a soft touch, after all. "Very fair, Madame."

"Madame," began the older housemaid, "I just wondered… are you ever a little unwell?" The cook clicked her tongue critically.

"That question to me is bordering on impertinence, as you well know," Madeleine said calmly. "But since I started this discussion, I shall answer it. Yes, sometimes I may be more idle and fretful than usual, or spend a day in bed. Fortune has smiled on me, but it is not so long ago that I had to work for my living as you do. I was fortunate enough to find an employer who gave me the same discretion that I have now offered you. I appreciated that consideration very much, and never used it unfairly."

Madeleine returned to the sitting room, happy to have made her point, recalling those days when she had worked as Erik's maid beneath the Opera House. She had been there three or four months, and had managed well enough, but one morning she woke clutching at her abdomen. Oh no – it had started, and it was going to be a bad one. She managed to dress and get to the kitchen early, before Monsieur was stirring, to conceal from him how little breakfast she could eat, and how near she came to bringing it back up. She tried to get through her normal tasks, but before the morning was far advanced, he asked sharply, "Madeleine, what is wrong? You look ill."

"Nothing… nothing is wrong, Monsieur."

"You are lying, and if you could see yourself, you would realise how useless such a lie is. Do you need a doctor?"

"No – oh, no. It is nothing, it will pass. I beg you, take no notice."

"I think I understand," he replied more quietly. "Women have troubles which they do not discuss with men. Are you afflicted with such a trouble today?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Then do not be a martyr. Go back to bed, and leave your work. It can wait until tomorrow, or whenever you feel better."

"I left the bread rising…"

"Very well. I will see to that. Is there anything you can do, anything you can take, that will help you?"

"A hot drink… weak tea. That sometimes helps. I will make some…"

"You will go to bed, now. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I will bring your tea in a few minutes. Leave your door unlocked so that I can enter."

"You are very kind, Monsieur." Tears were beginning to fill her eyes, and she turned away, but paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Monsieur… I have not locked my door since the first night I came here. I know I am safe here."

She hurried between her room and the bathroom, making herself clean and changing into nightclothes. When Monsieur had sent Jacques' wife to buy clothes and other necessities for her, these needs had been provided for, and she was thankful that she had not had to ask Monsieur or Jacques about such personal things.

Monsieur gave her plenty of time. She was ready before he came, sitting up in bed, a shawl round her shoulders. She leaned back and relaxed despite her pain, taking pleasure in being inactive. She had almost dozed off when he tapped at the door.

"Come in. Oh, I'm sorry, Monsieur, I should have lit a candle for you."

"No need. I brought one. I know that you have no use for light." He put down a tray, which sounded rather heavy, and approached her bed. "I brought a hot-water bottle. Warmth is sometimes a comfort in illness. I shall leave it here by your pillow, and you may use it or put it away on the floor, just as you please." Cutting short her thanks, he fetched the tea, put the cup and saucer on the bedside table, and guided her hand to it. "If there is anything I can do for you, tell me. Otherwise, I shall leave you to your rest."

Madeleine wiped hastily at the tears spilling down her cheeks. "Monsieur… you are too kind, altogether too kind to me."

"No more than you deserve. You are a good girl. Now drink your tea, and then rest." With a brief touch of his hand on her shoulder, he left her.

Madeleine rested, sometimes sleeping, until late afternoon. Then she rose, dressed, and took the tray through to the kitchen. She had not heard Monsieur playing at all during the day, but now he spoke to her from his chair by the fire, and she thought he must be reading.

"Are you feeling better? You look… not well, but less ill."

"Yes, I am better, thank you, Monsieur. I really need to get up for a while, or else I will not sleep tonight. And I would like to get something to eat now."

"Of course. Can I help you?"

"Oh, no… I can do it. Something simple, bread and honey perhaps, and coffee. I will get it."

"As you wish, but bring it here and sit in the armchair by the fire to eat. You may as well be comfortable."

She brought in her tray, sat across the fireplace from him, and leaned back luxuriously in the deep chair.

"Madeleine… I was wondering... As an old bachelor, I have spent little time in the company of women, and yet it has always been my habit to seek to fill gaps in my knowledge. This must have happened before, since you have been here…? But on such a personal matter, I have no right to question you. Stay silent, if you would rather not answer."

Madeleine thought for a moment. "My mother always encouraged me to feel able to discuss such things. It is different, talking to a man. But I don't mind. Yes, this is the… third? fourth? time since I have worked for you, but the others were not so bad. It is only sometimes that it makes me so ill as I was this morning. The first time after I had come here… I welcomed that with relief, because…"

"Because it meant that you had not become pregnant as a result of the attack on you. Yes, I knew that must be on your mind. I am happy for you that you have not suffered that burden."

"Not pregnant, and not diseased. The event was bad enough, but at least I have been spared the after-effects which might have blighted me."

"You mentioned your mother. I know you miss her."

Was that a subtle way to distract her from an even more painful memory? "Oh yes, Monsieur. We were so close… she was my best friend. But she had had griefs in her life, too. She taught me that, when bad things happen, we must pick up the pieces and carry on. To dwell too much on the past is like poking at a wound. It makes the pain worse, and delays the healing. She was very wise." Madeleine finished her drink, took the tray into the kitchen and washed up. Returning to the fireside, she asked, "Would it inconvenience you, Monsieur, if I brought my knitting here?"

"Not at all. I shall be playing the piano for a while, but the click of the needles is no distraction."

So for the rest of the evening Madeleine knitted, listening to the beautiful music. She slept well that night.

O-O-O

Madeleine smiled as she returned to the present. Erik had always been good to her. (She suppressed a memory of chilling rebukes, if she had failed to keep Christine's room perfect. Erik had mostly been good to her…) If he was not good to others, it was a product of his cruel upbringing. What a waste. What a man he might have been, had he been born with an ordinary face, or given fair treatment.

A few days after Madeleine's talk with the female staff, Annette shyly began a conversation with her, initially about how best to manage the problems that came with a woman's monthly illness. When Madeleine answered her calmly and without embarrassment, Annette took heart, and asked more wide-ranging questions. Madeleine soon understood the drift of her talk. Farm-born, Annette had been familiar since childhood with matters of animal mating and breeding. But she was old enough now to start wondering how such things related to people. How did one choose a spouse, what was it like being married?

Madeleine blessed the unorthodox education her mother had provided for her. Odette had found women of experience who were willing to come and talk to Madeleine, and explain matters concerning men and women. There had been midwives, there had been prostitutes… but her most educational visitor had been an elderly widowed neighbour. She had outlived two husbands, and had had lovers between marriages. Enjoying her memories, perhaps boasting a little, she had told Madeleine many things which now helped her in her wish to be a good wife to Erik.

In the same matter-of-fact way, Madeleine explained such things to Annette. She spoke in general terms, not giving intimate details of her life with Erik, but passing on the knowledge which had come to her from her own and other women's experience, good and bad. Annette drank in this information, which her own mother had been too busy, or too embarrassed, to impart to her. She had always liked Madeleine, but now she began to regard her with something approaching awe, as a fount of secret knowledge.

The other staff, too, had gained more respect for Madeleine as they experienced her down-to-earth approach to life. Madeleine began to feel more confident in her role as mistress of a household. This was something she could do, make a pleasant home. Life settled more comfortably into its new pattern.

O-O-O

The day came for the grand charity concert at Notre Dame. Erik and Madeleine sat unobtrusively in the crowd, formally dressed, Erik in a flesh-textured mask. His face did not look quite normal, but nor did he look like the Phantom.

With Christine recovering from a recent injury, it had been uncertain whether she would be well enough to perform, but her name was in the programme, in a prestigious place just before the intermission. It looked like a last-minute insertion, and there was no indication of what she would sing, but they were confident that she would perform the _Rainbow_ song which Erik had written. They waited with what patience they could muster, through the first half of the concert.

Christine walked on-stage, to great applause. Erik murmured quietly to Madeleine that she looked frail, thinner than she used to be, and she wore a wig to conceal her cut-short hair. But she drew herself up, faced the audience with a commanding presence, and began her first song, a popular Mozart aria.

Erik and Madeleine sat with hands clasped. Madeleine had felt the tension in Erik as Christine appeared, then he relaxed as she began to sing. Her voice was as fine as it had ever been, with all the beauty and skill that he had taught her. Madeleine felt tiny movements in Erik's hand as he responded to the music, and she trusted that it was only the beautiful voice which moved him. She had to believe what he had told her, that Christine as a woman no longer had power over him.

Christine acknowledged the applause for her first song, and waited for silence. As the orchestra began the introduction for the next piece, Erik audibly gasped, and for a moment his hand almost crushed Madeleine's. It took a few more bars for Madeleine to recognise it. Christine sang Aminta's aria from the first act of _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was a beautiful expression of artless innocence, written for stark contrast with the lies and corruption which would come later in the opera. Taken out of context, the loveliness of the song shone out like a flower freed from encroaching weeds. This time the applause was a storm. Erik sat stunned; Madeleine had to nudge him to remind him to clap, and not draw attention by failing to show appreciation.

Then Christine sang her _Rainbow_ song, and in spite of what had gone before, it was a worthy climax to her performance. Madeleine was moved to tears by it. When it ended, the audience paid Christine the tribute of a long moment of silence, before bursting into a standing ovation.

It was the intermission. Erik pressed Madeleine's hand. "She will not sing again tonight. Her voice was tiring by the end, although I doubt if many people realised. May we go home now?"

"Yes, of course."

Erik said very little on the way home. Cab, train, cab again, and finally into their own home. In the drawing room, Erik sat down and drew Madeleine to sit in his lap, his arms round her. Finally, he spoke. "I never… never imagined she would sing anything from _Don Juan Triumphant_ , ever again. I thought she would hate the very memory of it, as I do."

"But that song… that is the most beautiful piece of the whole opera. I remember thinking so when you wrote it, and wishing you would sing it more often. But once it was done, you set it aside, and I never heard it again, until tonight."

"I had to write it. The first act needed that expression of unspoiled happiness. But it was hard for me to do, as I was then, full of hatred and bitter jealousy. And afterwards… after what happened, I threw the whole score in the fire, and tried to forget it."

"Then you threw out the diamond with the dross, but Christine had the good sense to save the diamond." Madeleine slid out of Erik's arms and stood up. "To your desk, Maestro! If you have destroyed your only copy of that jewel, go now while it is fresh in your memory, and write it again! That song deserves a place of honour in your library."

Madeleine sat back on the sofa, dreamily recalling the evening's music, to the quiet scratching of Erik's pen. At length, he asked softly, "What are you thinking?"

"That you are a better composer now than you were then." Abruptly, she sat up. "I'm sorry, Erik. I don't know what made me say that. It's not for me to judge your music."

He came to sit by her. "And yet I would say that you are right. The audience tonight, they felt it too, although they did not know that the last two songs were by the same hand. Aminta's aria was the very best I could do – then. But _Rainbow_ is better. It makes me think that I could do more with my music, if I really tried. I have never completed a symphony or an oratorio, when there seemed no chance that such a large composition would ever be performed. But I should do that, put my abilities to the test, regardless of what happens to the work afterwards. And on a smaller scale, there could be other challenges. Music for children, which would inspire them to learn more. Consolation for the sad, refreshment for the tired, celebration for the happy. Music has many powers which I have scarcely explored. I begin to see new doors opening."

O-O-O O-O-O


	22. 22: Springtime

22: Springtime

If Madeleine had a regret, it was that she could not fully share Erik's music with him. Her own ability was very limited, she knew. Often he would play and sing with her, and she enjoyed the time together. But afterwards, she sometimes thought that he must feel like a racehorse harnessed with a donkey, bringing his skill down to her level. Perhaps it was better when she was simply his audience, letting her soul fly on the wings of his art.

Madame Chevalier brought her children for lessons now. Erik believed that the girl had great potential, and often spoke to Madeleine of how satisfying it was to nurture her talent. It soon became clear to Erik that Nicole had much more ability than Pierre, but that problem resolved itself. It was true that Pierre had a good ear, and enjoyed playing tunes on his whistle. But after a few attempts, he proved uninterested in learning any more demanding instrument. He had not the patience or the ambition to work at anything which he perceived as difficult. So, at the start of each lesson, Erik would teach him a new tune and send him outside to practise it, while in the studio he continued to develop Nicole's skill. Madame Chevalier sat in a corner of the studio, blandly pleased with her talented daughter. Madeleine sometimes listened as well, but it was a mixed pleasure for her. This little girl could give Erik a challenge and a fulfilment that Madeleine could not.

Word spread in the town that Monsieur Lisle was teaching, and a few people asked about lessons for themselves or their children, but Erik usually turned them down. He made an exception for Victor, a young man who was already playing piano professionally. Technically, he was so good that Erik had little to teach him, but his lack was the emotional content of music. He could not convey all the feeling which the composer had put in. Erik found this baffling. To him, music was a language far clearer than words, a composer's intentions far more understandable than the thoughts and feelings of most people around him. Victor's renditions might be note-perfect, but somehow they drained the soul from the music, as a photograph drained the soul from a beautiful landscape by reducing it to shades of grey.

Sometimes patiently, and sometimes with irritation, Erik made him immerse himself in the nuances of classical pieces, until Victor began to catch glimmerings of what he had missed before. At Madeleine's inspired suggestion, Erik sometimes had Nicole and Victor share lessons. In some ways the child's naïve honesty could make things plainer to Victor than all of Erik's analysis. She could recognise when a piece should be happy or sad, or something more subtle. She could quote fairy stories expressing what the music said to her. Her playing skills were not always equal to what she wanted to convey, but Victor would listen to her attempts, find her meaning and echo it more clearly on the piano. Both benefited from the dialogue.

But teaching was a sideline. Erik remained principally a composer. Madeleine had known since the days in the Opera House that, when he was absorbed in a new piece, he scarcely thought about food or rest. With some concern for his health, and with a desire for his company, she gradually tried to modify his habits. She would leave him alone in the studio all day if he was working. But come evening, she would join him there. Even then, she did not try to distract him, but bringing a Braille book, she would sit quietly and read. Usually, after a while, he would take the hint, put down his work, and join her for dinner. They would spend the evening together, and go to bed together – and then Madeleine made sure of getting his attention. They had come a long way from those tentative early embraces. Now they had learned how to delight themselves and each other. Each now had the confidence to ask the other for what would please them, and the sensitivity to know when to give without asking. They experimented with novel techniques, sometimes finding fresh satisfaction and sometimes finding laughter, and a return to more ordinary pleasures.

Still, at times such encounters took an unexpected turn. One night, Madeleine felt Erik's hands pause in the act of arousing her, while a soft humming sounded in his throat. These days, she understood what caused such interruptions. "A new melody?" she murmured with resignation. "Something which must be worked out and written down, right now?"

"Yes, I… Do you mind?" But he was already getting up and making for the door.

"Go ahead. But you must make it up to me, tomorrow."

"Of course…" inattentively.

"And – Erik!"

"What now?" came the impatient response from near the door.

"You'll likely be up all night. The maids start work early, and I don't want you to startle them. So put on a dressing gown before you go down!"

A rustle of cloth told her that he had done as she asked. Smiling to herself, Madeleine snuggled down into the bed. Her hands roved over her body, continuing what he had started. Touching herself was different from when Erik touched her, but still pleasant. She began planning what she would ask of him tomorrow, to make up for his desertion tonight. It was seldom that she made outright demands of him, but if she chose her moment carefully, he would enjoy the novelty, and take pride in rising to her challenge.

Since the early days of their marriage in the small cottage, she had grown used to waking and finding herself alone. She recalled one morning when she had gone down to where he was working at the piano. Waiting patiently until he seemed satisfied with the phrase which he was perfecting, she had approached to persuade him to have some breakfast. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she was taken aback to feel that his skin was bare, and colder even than was usual for him. He must have risen from their bed and come straight to the piano without pausing to dress. It was springtime, but the nights were still cold, and the cottage was chilly. She had put a shawl on over her dress before coming downstairs.

"Erik, you're freezing! Go and put some clothes on, while I light the fires."

"What? Oh… cold is not important. This melody… You will like it. Let me play it for you…"

Madeleine took off her shawl and draped it over his shoulders, then wrapped her arms around him to stop him from reaching for the keyboard again. "I won't enjoy the music if I'm worried about you. Go and dress, we'll have some breakfast, and then I will listen." He had let himself be persuaded, while she lit the fire and started the breakfast.

Having servants saved her from drudgery, Madeleine reflected, but it also meant a loss of privacy. Well, she found it an equable trade, and she would do her best to guard the dignity of her unpredictable husband, when he was too absorbed in music to think of such things. Knowing the symptoms, she anticipated that he would be working through much of the next day, but she never complained about breakfasting or lunching alone.

Another day, though, she was part way through her lunch when to her surprise he joined her. His latest commission was a musical setting for an epic poem, a challenging task which had absorbed his energies for some time.

"Done," he stated succinctly, helping himself to soup from the tureen.

"Oh, I'm glad! Are you happy with it?"

"Yes, I think so. I shall leave it for a day or two, then play it through again, but I believe it will stand."

Later, in the afternoon sunshine, Erik walked with Madeleine in the garden, perhaps making up for his sometime neglect of her. There was a bench in a secluded arbour, and they sat there together, Erik's arm about Madeleine's shoulders, while she rested her head against him. Madeleine held his free hand in both of her own, while they spoke quietly of the house and garden, of the town and its people, unimportant things, but a simple pleasure to share. During a pause in the conversation, Madeleine pressed Erik's hand to her belly. He caught his breath, and gently stroked her. Madeleine's form had always been softly rounded, and the change which he felt now had come so gradually that he had not noticed it before.

"When…?" he asked tentatively.

"September."

"Then… you must have known… for some time."

"I waited, to be sure. And then you were busy…"

Erik turned Madeleine so that she sat across his lap, and drew her into a close embrace. There was silence for a while, until Madeleine broke it.

"Erik, please talk to me. Tell me what you feel about this…"

"I feel… thrilled. Madeleine, you are bringing something new and wonderful into my life. Almost as I felt when we were married. Yes, thrilled, excited… and afraid, too."

"Because you fear a damaged child?"

"That, yes, but mostly for you. Childbearing is not without risk." His arms tightened. "I could not bear to lose you."

"I can make no promise that all will be well. None of us can foresee the future. I remember how near I came to losing you, the night of the Marquis's dinner party. But I do believe that it will be all right." She smiled. "I trust you to take care of me."

"Anything you want…" He chuckled. "I shall probably drive you mad by being over-attentive. But at my age… with my past… to have such a vista opening before me… It is astonishing."

"You… you like the Chevalier children, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. They are tolerable, in their way. But this… this will be _our_ child, Madeleine. Well, I have hopes, I have fears. Perhaps I should imagine the worst that could be, and then the reality will be a pleasant surprise."

"And what would be the worst?" she asked archly. "Disfigured… or blind… or tone-deaf?"

"Minx! You are right – I hope he will be musical. He or she, I suppose. So much to think about."

"Then let us begin by going back indoors, and choosing a room to be a nursery."

O-O-O

Their bedroom was flanked on each side by dressing rooms and bathrooms. They planned how the newborn's crib would sit at Madeleine's bedside, then the cot in her dressing room, while the growing child would have his own room across the landing. Returning to the bedroom, Madeleine dropped into a chair and reached to remove her outdoor shoes. Erik forestalled her, kneeling at her feet. He slipped her shoes off and rubbed her feet, then slid his hands up to massage her ankles and calves through the silk stockings. Then with a sigh, he arranged her skirt in a seemly manner, straightened his back and rested his hands on her knees.

"Now that you are to be a mother… perhaps you will have less energy to be a wife."

Madeleine reached out to find his face, then leaned and kissed his forehead. "My energy is not dimmed since last Saturday. I was wife enough for you then."

"Saturday…? So long? I have been neglecting you…"

"But the music was important. I can wait my turn."

"You did not even try to distract me this week. Surely you are not afraid to compete with the music for my attention? Are you worried that you might lose?"

"I shall not put you to that test. For then you and I would both be the losers. Erik, your music is such a large part of who you are. I have no wish to make you less than yourself."

"It is true, when the composing fit is on me, I would scarcely be good company. But when the fit passes… then it is my delight that you are there, waiting for me with angelic patience."

She laughed. "Or demonic lust!" Pulling his head closer, she kissed him on the lips, this time with passion. "It has been too long since Saturday…"

O-O-O O-O-O


	23. 23: Justice Deferred

23: Justice Deferred

He travels fastest who travels alone. That had been Erik's maxim for most of his life. He still believed it, but now he could acknowledge that, sometimes, it was pleasant not to be alone. So he mused, waiting on the platform for the train to Paris, and this time not alone.

He wanted to see his music agent, and had some other business to conduct in the city. Madeleine needed to order some new clothes, while her own still fitted her, and decided on a shopping expedition to Paris. She wanted to go back to the shop where the Marquise had taken her, for the staff there were helpful and understanding of the problems of a blind customer. So they arranged a day when they would go together. On such occasions Erik always ensured that Madeleine was properly attended, by her personal maid and by the manservant. He wanted to be sure that she would be safe if he were called away elsewhere. And, to be perfectly honest, he had limited enthusiasm for browsing in department stores; sometimes what called him away was simply his own boredom.

So here he was, smartly dressed, his face sufficiently disguised so as not to alarm people, one of a group of four. But, he admitted to himself, it was agreeable to be visibly the head of a respectable household, with his elegant wife on his arm, and attended by a pair of well-dressed, well-mannered servants. He had dreamed of scenes like this in the lonely years of his past. He should remember that, if he ever felt a niggling irritation at having to consider other people besides himself.

When the train came in they found seats together, Erik by the window where he could observe and describe anything which might be of interest to Madeleine, but aware that silence was no burden to her if there was nothing worth talking about. At a small station, several other Paris-bound travellers boarded the train and made their way down the aisle, seeking seats further along. One man, with a boy in tow, was loudly telling the boy about different kinds of wine, their strengths and weaknesses. Erik idly watched the pair, smiling a little to himself at the level of ignorance which the man showed while clearly thinking himself a master of the subject. When they had moved on, he turned to make an amused comment to Madeleine. The words were never spoken.

Madeleine's face was white, her breath coming fast, hands clenched into fists in her lap. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. "What is it? What is wrong?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. The two servants sitting opposite, who had been looking out of the window as the train left the station, turned in alarm to look at her.

"Nothing… it is nothing…" she murmured, groping for Erik's hand. "I felt… unwell… for a moment." She drew a steadying breath, then another. "A little faintness… I could not eat much breakfast this morning." She managed a wan smile. "I am sorry to have worried you."

Erik chafed her hands between his own, then took a handkerchief and wiped her face. There was more to this than morning sickness, he realised, but if Madeleine did not want to explain in front of the servants, he would respect her privacy. "We shall be in Paris in about half an hour," he replied. "You must have something to eat there, and rest quietly for a little, before you venture to the shops. Would you like to lie down across the seats, or to put your feet up? We will make you as comfortable here as space permits."

"Certainly not," she retorted, her voice stronger. "It does not make me comfortable to draw attention to myself. Annette, what was it you were saying about my needing new shoes to wear with the blue dress? And do you think we might find a scarf to match it, as well…?"

The two women began a discussion of Madeleine's wardrobe. Erik took no part in their conversation, absorbed in his own thoughts. A few stops later, the train approached Paris. "Annette, Claude," Erik said to the servants, "I want you to remain seated here with Madame for a few minutes, so that she is not jostled by the crowd. Once the train has emptied, you may escort her slowly to the station hotel. I am going ahead, to engage a room at the hotel." Madeleine started to say something about him fussing too much, but he hushed her and went on his way, getting off the train the moment it stopped. Snaking through the swarms of people, he reached the ticket barrier first, and with relief hailed the man waiting for him there.

"Girard, good, you are prompt."

"I have my usual reports for you, Monsieur."

Erik was watching the crowd exiting the platform. "That can wait. I have another task for you. I shall point out a man who was on this train. Follow him. Tell me later who he is, where he lives. I may want to find him again. Yes, here he comes. Shabby brown jacket, yellow neckerchief. There is a boy with him. You see him?"

"I see him, Monsieur. But he will not see me." Girard melted into the crowd. Erik went on to the hotel, booked a room and ordered refreshments. By that time Madeleine and the servants had arrived.

In a well-furnished room, Erik seated Madeleine on a chaise longue with her feet up, poured coffee for her, and offered her a cake. Annette looked on, then said, "Madame, Monsieur… if you wish the room kept quiet for Madame to rest, there is a bookshop across the way which I would like to visit, and perhaps Claude will come with me. But of course, we will stay here if we can be useful."

"No, Annette, I think a quiet rest would be best for Madame," Erik replied. "By all means go to your bookshop. Be back in an hour." Annette curtseyed and both servants left the room.

"Smart girl, that," remarked Erik as he pulled a chair next to Madeleine. "She could tell that I wanted to be alone with you. Now, Madeleine, what was it which upset you so badly on the train? It was not a fit of hunger, and you were not sick this morning."

"No… no. Erik, I… must I talk about it? It is difficult."

He took her hand, stroking it gently. "What hurts you, hurts me. I think I must know. But shall I tell you my guess? There was a man walking past at that moment, talking loudly. I wondered if you knew him… if you recognised his voice. And if it was someone whom you had no wish to meet."

She sighed. "Yes." He waited, but she said no more. He stooped and kissed her brow.

"In the time we have been together, Madeleine, and in what I know of your past, I can think of only one man, the thought of whom would distress you so much. That is… you told me there were two. Was he one of them?"

"Yes!" Suddenly her voice was forceful, like blood spurting from a wound. "Before I came to the Opera House, there were two men who raped me. And he was one of them. So now you know."

"Oh, sweet Madeleine, my poor love. Life is cruel, to remind you of that evil. But are you sure? Just by his voice, after so long?"

"Not just his voice," she whispered. "Not just that. I… could smell him, Erik. Have I never told you, bodies have odours, and I am aware of them? With people who wash, and wear clean linen, the odour is slight. With those who have not the means or the wish to be clean, it is strong, and individual. That man… there was the smell of tobacco, of dirt in his clothes. But also there was the smell of his skin and his sweat, which I can never forget. That, and his voice… that is the man. And, Erik, you must promise me not to pursue him."

"I have sometimes thought of those men, but there seemed no way that they could be found and punished. Now that one is found… you do not want him to pay for his crime? That is surely forgiveness carried to superhuman extremes."

"I don't forgive him! I wish him a miserable life and a painful death. But _not at your hands,_ Erik! I do not want you doing anything that might bring the law down upon you! He did me enough harm, without causing you to end in prison, or at the guillotine. I know you have always outwitted the forces of law, and you think that you always will. But I am not so confident. I do not want to live with the fear that you might be snatched away from me. So promise me!"

Erik sat in silence for a while. All he wanted was to protect Madeleine from evil, and to punish those who had done evil to her. It was frustrating to have her tie his hands like that. But… were his hands really tied? Might it be possible to do as she wished, but also do as he wished? An interesting challenge… He kissed her again. "This promise I will give you. I will commit no criminal acts against this man. But if I find him… if I find an opportunity to do him a bad turn, to make things go wrong for him, short of crime… I will not be merciful. Does that satisfy you?"

She sighed. "Yes, Erik, I accept that. Always remember, though, your safety is more important to me than any possibility of vengeance."

O-O-O

The rest of the Paris outing passed uneventfully. Two days later, Erik met Girard in Capelle, and they walked for a while along a quiet road while they talked.

"His name is Maslin Pelletier," began Girard. "I have his address here. He works irregular hours as a casual labourer at a warehouse. He was married; his wife died a few years ago, in poor health after a string of miscarriages. He has a twelve-year-old son, whom he sometimes takes into the country. Some people think he is a caring father to give his child the clean air and fresh surroundings. Others say he is probably teaching the boy tricks of poaching, and possibly housebreaking or pilfering. He associates with petty criminals, but has no criminal record himself; perhaps that is simply because he has been lucky. He drinks; there are two bars that he frequents most regularly. I have written down the details for you."

"Good. Contact me if anything changes. And now, this is what I want you to do next…"

O-O-O

When Erik told Madeleine that he would be away for a few days, she looked slightly anxious, but did not question him, nor attempt to dissuade him. He pondered that as he took the train to Paris. In the old days in the Opera House, of course, he had come and gone as he pleased on his nefarious activities, and never offered explanations to her when she was only his maid. Now, as his wife, she would have been entitled to badger him for details, but she did not do it. For that matter, it was seldom now that he went away, for he had a pleasant home, and less incentive to leave it. Still, some things had to be done. When he returned, he would explain, and Madeleine would understand.

He made his way to a cheap lodging house in a poor quarter of the city, where Girard had engaged a room for him and left a bag of used clothes, disreputable and grubby. He felt a momentary distaste as he laid these out and made a selection, then shrugged and dressed for the part he was to play. A mask of coarse linen, clumsily sewn, covered his face down to the lips. Thus transformed, he made his way to the first of Pelletier's regular bars, but the man was not there. Undeterred, Erik bought himself a drink or two, and made awkward attempts to engage other customers in conversation, with rough voice and slovenly speech. He was rebuffed, as he expected, but that did not matter. He was established as a stranger seeking company. He repeated the act in the other bar he had been told of, but Pelletier was not there either, so eventually he returned to the lodging house, not dissatisfied with his evening's work.

The second evening went much the same. Late on, Pelletier did come into the bar, but he was with friends, and Erik wanted him alone. On the third evening, he succeeded. Pelletier came in with another man, but after one drink, the second man left, leaving Pelletier alone at his table. Erik took his glass and the bottle he had been nursing over to the table.

"Drink?" he offered Pelletier.

Pelletier glanced up, frowned at the mask, but noted the label on the bottle, a brandy of reasonable quality. He shrugged. Erik filled Pelletier's glass and sat at the table.

Pelletier took a swallow of the brandy. "Good enough. But why?"

"Boredom. Looking for company. I've been promised a job, but it doesn't start until next week. A man gets tired of the same four walls after a while. But the people here aren't very friendly."

"They're friendly enough. But you scare them with that mask. Why do you wear it?"

Erik lifted one corner of the linen, exposing a little of the ravaged face beneath. "Don't want to put people off their beer. I thought you looked like you wouldn't scare so easily." He replaced the mask.

"Takes worse'n that to scare me," Pelletier responded, although with a slight shake in his voice. "Pelletier."

"Garnier. Have another drink. Tell me what you do for entertainment around here."

Encouraged to talk, flattered by Erik's attention, Pelletier rambled on about bars and music halls, about horse racing and prize fights and gambling clubs. Erik appeared to match him drink for drink, but he knew a few tricks to keep his head clear. While acting the role of a drunken man, he made rapid plans. He had been prepared to spend more time on this quest, but this evening seemed as good as any. Pelletier was alone, drunk, and fancying himself a clever man-of-the-world, expounding wisdom to this unfortunate stranger. Easy prey.

The bottle was empty. Erik rose unsteadily to his feet. "Tell you what. Come back to my place. Not far. Got another bottle there. Good stuff. Better'n this."

"Ooo! _Good_ stuff!" Pelletier also stood, holding the table. "Doing all right for yourself, aren't you? For a man out of a job."

"They gave me an advance. I'm useful." He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper and leaned towards the other man. "Accountant. I'm good with numbers. Creative, you might say. Can't go into the office this week, there's a boss-man doing an inspection. Next week I'll go in. Then I'll fix things for them. So what about that drink?"

"Okay. Good man, Garnier. You remind me of my old buddy, Demarais. Good man, Demarais. Croaked, a year ago. Still miss him."

"Then we'll go and drink to his memory. Come on."

Reeling artistically, Erik steered a course to the door, Pelletier leaning heavily on his arm. They made their way to Erik's room, where he set out glasses and produced a bottle from the cupboard. The bottle was of his own making, its dark glass concealing the fact that it had two chambers; he could continue to give fiery spirit to Pelletier, while the drink he poured for himself would dilute the effect of what he had already drunk that evening. And Pelletier's brandy would do more than keep him drunk; it had an added drug which would make him vulnerable to suggestion

The conversation pursued its apparently drunken course for a while. Erik's voice grew smoother, now that Pelletier was too far gone to notice. Soothing, enticing, a voice to encourage the hearer to respond, to hold nothing back. Now he had to approach the reason for this charade.

"Pelletier, my friend," Erik said softly. "You can tell me… you'd know… clever man like you…"

"Clever. I'm clever. What do you want to know, pal Garnier?"

"Women. Where can a man go for women around here?"

Pelletier leered. "Like the girls, do you, buddy?"

"Well, of course. Any man who is a man likes the girls. But the girls don't care so much for me. They don't like the mask. And they like what's under it even less. Either they won't play, or they charge too much. So how does a man find a woman who doesn't care what he looks like?"

"You're asking… you're asking the right man." Pelletier chuckled to himself. "Ol' Pelletier knows all the right people. You want… you want Madame Simone at 27 Rue Bains. Well, no, you don't want the madame herself. She's a bit past it… but you tell her Pelletier sent you, and she'll fix you up all right. Some of her girls…" Pelletier waved his hands around in vague, suggestive gestures, going off into a daydream. "Some of those girls… Mind you, I remember a day… You should have been along with me and Demarais. Bit of luck, we had. Free. And she wouldn't have minded what you looked like. Wouldn't have minded…" He laughed, and coughed as he inhaled the drink. Erik leaned and slapped him on the back.

"Take it easy, friend. Don't want you to choke, do we?" he said through gritted teeth. "So who was this? Some girlfriend you shared with Demarais? Someone who didn't mind what a man looked like?"

"Blind, wasn't she? So she would never have known. Stumbling about lost, she was. So we took care of her." He laughed again, and Erik felt his hands twitching towards the man's throat. With difficulty, he restrained himself. He should not have doubted Madeleine's identification, but to carry through his intention, he needed to hear the words from the man's own lips. And now he had heard enough, but he was forced to hear more.

"Not much of a looker. Well, she would have been except for those horrible dead eyes. We had to cover them. Had to cover her face anyway, stop her from squealing. Women always squeal, it's just their way of trying for a higher price. But it's all lies. They like it really, all of them. Nothing like a good man for making a woman feel good. And we both had a go, so she must have felt twice as good. _We_ sure did! Just a pity about the squealing. And about those horrible eyes. Empty. Like a death's-head."

"Oh, you are wrong," Erik hissed. "Blind eyes do not look like a death's-head. A death's-head looks like _this_!" Snatching off his mask, he leapt to his feet and leaned over Pelletier in his chair, thrusting his face close to the other man, fixing him with his eyes. Pelletier tried to scream, but had no breath.

"You cannot speak," Erik said silkily. "You cannot move. You can do nothing unless I tell you." Pelletier sat frozen, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. "You see this face," Erik went on. "This living death's-head. You will never forget this face, but you will forget where you saw it. You will forget me, and this room, and all that has passed between us. But for the rest of your life, at certain times, you will have a vision of this face. And the horror of it will turn your bowels to water, your bones to jelly. Now I shall give you your final instructions. Then you will go home and go to bed. You will wake with a terrible hangover, and no memory of the previous evening. If you try to recall it, the death's-head will leap out at you. And afterwards, this is how your life will be…"

O-O-O

After Pelletier had gone, Erik changed back into his own clothes, paid his score and left the lodging house. He dumped the bag with the disguise in an alley. It was too late to get a train back to Capelle, so he went to the station hotel for the night, and made his way home the next morning. Madeleine was alone in her sitting room, at the piano, doggedly practising one of the more difficult exercises which he had taught her. She paused as he stopped in the doorway. "Erik…?" She rose and turned.

"Yes." He stepped forward quickly and took her into his arms, then drew her to sit by him on the sofa. "I thought Annette would be with you."

"I sent her away. I have not wanted much company…"

"I am sorry. I hoped that you would not worry about me, but I should have known better."

"I was afraid… that you had gone after that man."

"Yes, I did. And found him. And I kept my promise to you. I did not hurt him. He is alive and well. All I did was talk to him, and buy him some drinks."

"There is more to the story than that," she replied firmly.

"Yes, there is." Still holding her, he told her all that had happened, from when he sent Girard to pursue the man from the station. He spared her the details of Pelletier's account of the rape, but all the same she shuddered, and clung closer to him.

"Madeleine, you astonish me, that you can take comfort from me. I know that I have done evil things in the past, but nothing has ever revolted me like what he did to you. It seems to me that a woman who suffered that would never want to be touched by any man, ever again."

"If I had eaten poison and been made sick by it, should I then forswear all food? Or should I make sure only to take wholesome food afterwards? For my part, I confess my surprise at you, that knowing what happened to me, you can still love me as your wife."

"To blame you for what was done to you would be as unjust as when I am blamed for the face I was born with. You once said, truly, that we both know what it is to be hurt. I think that is why we belong together."

"Yes, we do. But finish your story. When you cast your magic spell upon Pelletier, you promised that the image of the death's-head would keep coming back to haunt him. But how is this to affect his life?"

"Ah, that image which will strike him weak and powerless… It will spring out at him whenever he feels desire. Whenever he is, or tries to be, sexually aroused. His strength will be stricken from him. He will never again possess a woman." He paused. "Or a man. Or child, or animal, or rubber toy, or his own hands. He is emasculated, as thoroughly as though I had taken a knife to him."

Madeleine gave a short, harsh laugh. "Then that is justice. They say it grinds slowly, but he has justice now." Her expression softened to a more natural smile. "But… rubber toy?"

"I… have heard… of such things."

"Yes. I understand." She nestled closer into his arms. "I trust that the magic… does not rebound on the magician?"

His arms tightened on her. "I promise you, it does not. Come upstairs with me now, and I shall prove it."

O-O-O O-O-O


	24. 24: Harvest

Chapter 24 – Harvest

The day came when Madeleine dressed for the first time in her maternity clothes, enjoying their greater comfort for her changing shape.

"I would like to engage a midwife soon," she remarked at breakfast. "I need advice about… oh, eating, sleeping… everything, really."

"Doctor, not midwife," Erik replied at once. "Remember we have no need to practise economy. I want you to have the best."

"Midwife, not doctor, then," she said firmly. "My mother had a doctor for me, and she had a terrible time. She told me, if it was ever my turn, to make sure I was advised by someone who _understands_. A woman."

Erik hesitated. "Perhaps she made an unfortunate choice of doctor. They are not all alike."

"But then when I was growing up… I told you about the women she found to talk to me, to educate me. There were midwives among them. Midwives do not like doctors."

"Understandable," Erik replied drily. "Any woman can call herself a midwife and set up in business. She would not want that business taken away by someone who has studied for years and acquired real skills."

"And what do they do with those skills? They tend the diseased. They cut up the dead. And then go straight to a woman's lying-in. I do not want our child's first breath tainted with the miasma of the mortuary."

"What you say was true once, not very long ago. But the medical profession has learned better in our modern era. You would not suffer the difficulties that beset your mother."

"Well, perhaps. But no doctor knows what it feels like to give birth. Would you buy a violin from a maker who was deaf?"

"That is not the same!" He sighed, recognising determined opposition when he saw it. "Then… if we do this your way, how do you want to proceed?"

"I have spoken to Annette, and she took me to see her mother. Annette is the eldest of eight children. Two of the others died, but for the youngest three, her mother was attended by Charlotte Thomas, and she said that that was the best care she had known, for herself and the babies. Madame Thomas has been a midwife for over twenty years, with two children of her own. Other women in Capelle think highly of her. I could trust her."

"Very well, Madeleine. If you want her, you shall have her. But you must forgive me if I make my own enquiries about her, and about doctors who may be called upon in an emergency."

For the most part, Madeleine was happy in her pregnancy, although Erik still quietly worried about what might go wrong. The midwife visited several times, advised Madeleine sensibly about diet and exercise, but did not trouble her with any talk of doctors. Delivering babies was women's business.

The final month, though, was harder on Madeleine. She had recurring backache, and the weather was unusually hot and humid, which she found hard to bear. Erik's cool skin could no longer refresh her, when the very air she breathed felt as stifling as warm water. She grew clumsy, bumping into furniture or knocking things over. Enjoined to exercise, she plodded wearily around the garden each morning and evening, leaning on Erik's arm, but spent much of the rest of the time tossing restlessly on her bed. He took to sleeping in his dressing room when it became clear that she wanted the bed to herself. He offered to take her to the seaside, where it would be cooler, but she flinched from the thought of the journey, and of trying to find her way around in a strange place. She became uncharacteristically irritable, snapping at Erik or the maids for smothering her with attention, or, if they withdrew, for not answering quickly enough when she called. Even Erik's attempts to soothe her with music produced only weary sighs, and a request that she be left in peace. When he tentatively offered to sing her to sleep, using his hypnotic power, she recoiled from the suggestion with something closer to horror than he had ever seen in her. She would share her life with him, and her bed, and her body, but her mind was sacrosanct and she would not willingly yield it.

Erik left her room one day, his jaw tight with the effort of appearing calm. He was trying to be patient with her, but it was difficult. But then… how much practice had he ever had at curbing his temper? In his previous life, he had often let rage flow unchecked, with no reason to restrain himself. In this tranquil retirement, annoyances were few and trivial. Madeleine… before this, had she ever put him to such a test? She so rarely disagreed with him, she always effaced herself and set his needs first. If she was demanding and self-centred now, she had reason. He must accept that, and pay back some of the consideration which she had always given to him.

Still brooding, he descended the stairs. Near the bottom, his foot encountered some obstacle, sending him in an ungainly sprawl on the hall carpet. With an oath, he rolled to his feet, just as the kitchen door opened. He could hear the two housemaids within, laughing and chattering. Jeanne said, "No, I must just go and get my box. I left it somewhere…" She came out into the hall, to be stopped by the sight of Erik's fierce glare. The box, and its contents of brushes and dusters, lay scattered on the floor. Erik stepped slowly towards her with the sinister grace of a stalking cat. She backed away until she was trapped against the wall, watching him in horror as he approached to within arm's length.

"Monsieur," she gasped hoarsely, "Monsieur… I'm sorry…" Her voice faded as his eyes burned into her. For perhaps a minute, though it seemed eternity, he stared unblinking at her. Then he drew himself up, and at his slight movement she cringed away, face buried in her hands. But instead of the blow she expected, there was only the menace of his voice, little more than a whisper, yet every word etched itself in her mind.

"Do you want to be dismissed without a character? With no chance of finding respectable work in the future?" Slowly his words sank in. Dismissed in disgrace… she would have nothing. Nothing but begging or whoring would be open to her. But the chilling voice went on, "Then consider this. Had it been Madame you brought down with your stupidity, instead of me… you would have had no future to worry about. Now clean up that mess!" He turned and strode away.

Released, Jeanne sank to her knees, shaking, then crawled to the spilled box and gathered the contents. Returning to the kitchen, she tried to explain to the other maid and to Madame Brun, who had heard a little, but not seen. "People used to say he was some kind of devil. And I just laughed. I said, an unfortunate man with a crooked face. But just now… his eyes… oh God, there really was a devil looking at me out of those eyes."

"You asked for it," replied Madame Brun unsympathetically. "I've told you before about leaving things lying around. With a blind lady in the house, you just can't do that. Claire, you had better wait at table tonight. Jeanne is shaking like a leaf. Jeanne, you got off lightly. If it had been Madame you tripped up, I don't know what would have happened."

"But I think I do," whispered Jeanne, too quietly to be heard.

O-O-O

One afternoon, Erik entered his dressing room and glanced through the open door to the main bedroom. On the bed, Madeleine lay on her side, her back to him, curled into a ball. She was softly weeping. Going in to her, he sat on the bed and put his hand on her shoulder, half expecting her to pull away. But she put up her own hand and gripped his. After a while, she reached for a handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then turned to face him.

"I'm sorry… You have been so patient, and I am being so shrewish… I'm sorry, Erik. And… will you apologise to the servants for me? I'm being unfair to everybody."

He held her hand, stroking it with both his own. "I will tell them, but they already understand. You feel wretched, and cannot help yourself. Madeleine, if I had known how difficult pregnancy would be for you…"

"Then what? Would you have tried to prevent it? But, Erik, I want our child. It's only the waiting that is so tedious. I wish my back didn't ache so. I wish the weather was cooler. I wish… I wish it was over."

He sighed. "I cannot change the weather, and I cannot determine when the baby will come. But I can do something about your aches." Methodically he stripped the clothing from her, and arranged her on the bed in the position least uncomfortable for her swollen body. He massaged her back, legs, feet, all of her, keeping her covered with a light sheet lest the drying sweat bring on a chill. Gradually she relaxed under his cool, skilled hands. It was an intimacy without passion, bringing peace to both of them.

"You are good to me, Erik," Madeleine murmured. "I wish… I could do more for you. I wish I were a real musician, to share that with you. It must be tiresome for you, that I cannot…"

"Is that what you think?" He was surprised, and his hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. "Madeleine, when have I ever said that? You are my helpmate, my ideal companion. I have no wish for a… a musical rival. With you as my audience, I am vain enough to bask in your admiration. And, those few times when you offer comments on my work… I am honest enough to admit that you are usually right. You… shed light on my thoughts. You have done that since…" He was silent for a few moments, then began again, hesitantly. "Once… in the old days… You had not long been working for me. One day, you were ill…"

"I remember. You sent me to bed. I thought the sight of me stumbling about must irritate you. But you brought me tea… you spoke kindly…"

"And I changed my plans for the day, and played no music while you slept, so as not to disturb you. At first, I did not know why. Gradually I realised… that was the first time I had contributed to the comfort of another human being. My soul was full of darkness then. But perhaps that was the first glimmer of light, the first desire to make someone else happy. Perhaps that prepared me for… the sharper lesson in self-denial which I had to learn later."

"We are none of us alone, Erik. We may try to be, but others touch us."

"Yes. The touch may be painful, but that is what has let light into the heart of me. The darkness is still there, it always will be, but I can keep it caged now. You bring me light, Madeleine, and it is ironic that one who can never know the sun should shine with light of the soul."

Madeleine shifted a little, and as he adjusted the pillows supporting her, she sighed, "I am afraid I have shed little light in the last few weeks."

"When nothing I can do gives you ease… that is painful for me, and I feel the darkness in me growing stronger. But now… I know that I am bringing you comfort, and the light returns." Stooping, he kissed her cheek. "I love you, Madeleine. Try to sleep, now."

O-O-O

That night a thunderstorm shattered the silence, and brought torrential rain. Next day the air was cooler, with a refreshing breeze. The following morning, Madeleine went into labour.

Erik paced from room to room, after the manner of husbands everywhere. Delivering babies was women's business. That was Madeleine's wish, and he had learned to respect it. Going through to the studio, he sat at the piano and sketched out a piece expressing impatience and anxiety. No one would ever want to listen to it, but it occupied him for a while.

Upstairs, Madeleine faced her task, and followed Madame Thomas's instructions. She could bear the pain, now that an end was in view. She expected it to take hours, and it did. The midwife knew her business and kept Madeleine reassured, while Annette hovered in a corner, ready to run errands. With her younger brothers and sisters, she was used to babies. When the time came for Madeleine to start pushing, she gritted her teeth against the screams that wanted to come out. Knowing full well that Erik would be listening, she wanted the first cry he heard to be the baby's.

"That's it… nearly there… one more push, now. There! Wonderful! You have a son."

"Is he… is he all right?" gasped Madeleine.

The midwife understood the question from her blind patient. "Just fine. Not a mark on him. And… yes, he has closed his eyes against the light, but they were open, and they were perfect." She talked on over the child's cries, busying herself with the necessary tasks. "All his fingers and toes. And everything else a boy-baby should have. There, now." Wrapping the baby in a blanket, she placed him in Madeleine's arms. Madeleine's hand carefully explored his face.

"Can my husband come in to see him?"

"Not yet, he can't. You still have to deliver the afterbirth. And then I need to clean you up. He can wait a while."

"No, he shouldn't… Annette, would you go to Monsieur and tell him… No, words are not enough. Annette, please take the baby and show him to his father."

"Oh, may I, Madame? I promise I'll be very careful."

Madeleine hesitantly gave the baby into Annette's experienced grasp, and the girl took him out of the room. Erik was on the landing, by the window at the end, and Annette went to him. "Your son, Monsieur. Madame wanted you to see him." Annette placed the baby in Erik's arms. He sat down rather abruptly on the window seat, gazing at the small miracle.

"And Madame? How is she?"

"Very well, Monsieur. The midwife still has things to do, but she will call you soon."

As Annette returned to the room, Erik unwrapped the blanket and looked at the small, perfect body. Sunlight, falling through the window, picked out every detail, but the baby screwed his eyes against the glare and cried again. Erik wrapped him up, and turned so that his shadow fell on the baby. After a few moments, the child stopped crying, and blinked eyes that were dark and brilliant. "Well, little one, you can see, even if you don't see much yet. From Madeleine and me came you. Life is full of wonders."

A little later, Madame Thomas called him to the bedroom. He found Madeleine sitting up, propped with pillows, face washed and hair brushed, but looking weary. He went quickly to her side. "Hold out your arms." He carefully placed the baby in her grasp, but she freed one arm and reached out to touch his face. Erik clasped her hand. "He is beautiful, Madeleine. A beautiful gift. Thank you." He leaned and kissed her.

The midwife touched Annette's arm, and led her from the room. "They want to be alone. Let's leave them. Now, if the kitchen can manage a bite of supper, I'd be glad to sit down for a while. I'll leave Madame Lisle to rest for an hour, then see if I can get her started nursing the baby."

In the quiet of the bedroom the baby slept, and Erik placed him in the crib. He and Madeleine sat holding hands, speaking little, thinking about this new door that had opened on their lives. Some time later there was a knock, and Jeanne came in with a tray.

"Madame, Monsieur – Madame Brun thought you might like some supper. She has sent up sandwiches, broth, little pies. Claire will be up soon with coffee. But if there is anything else you would prefer, Madame Brun would be delighted to get it for you." She set the tray down, and curtseyed.

"Well, Jeanne, I see you have come out of hiding." Erik touched Madeleine's hand to his face, so that she would know he was smiling. "Madeleine, a few days ago I had occasion to reprimand Jeanne. She has carefully stayed out of my sight since then."

Madeleine also smiled. "Poor Jeanne! A reprimand from Monsieur! I imagine that left you shaking in your shoes."

"It did, Madame," confessed the maid. "But I deserved it. I left clutter on the stairs. It inconvenienced Monsieur Lisle, but it could have been very dangerous for you. I shall not do it again."

"Monsieur can be very… emphatic, if something is wrong. But you seem to have got over the fright."

"Oh, that was Madame Brun. She ordered me to bring the tray up. She said I would have to face Monsieur sooner or later, and…" Her voice tailed away, but Erik laughed.

"Let me guess. She said that you would never again find me in so good a mood as tonight, with Madame safely delivered of a fine son."

Jeanne smiled shyly. "Almost her very words, Monsieur." Curtseying again, she left the room.

"What did you do to the poor girl?" smiled Madeleine.

"My demon stare. I let her see a little of that darkness in my soul. You will have to take my word, it is quite effective."

"Yes, that is a weapon that could not work on me. I remember hearing your demon voice once or twice, when I – " A whimper from the crib interrupted her. Erik brought the baby to Madeleine's arms.

"That was long ago. Our son reminds us – now we should look to the future."

O-O-O O-O-O O-O-O

 _(End of Part Three)_


	25. 25: Old Hatreds

PART 4: SHADOWS FROM THE PAST

25: Old Hatreds

The man was grey of hair and grey of aspect. Shabby clothes, weathered brown skin, face creased like old leather and with the same toughness. He sat alone in a corner of the bar, nursing a glass of cheap brandy, seeking oblivion. He paid his way and caused no trouble, so the barman kept him supplied without comment. The grey man scarcely noticed when a young man came to sit at his table. "I've been looking for you," the young man began. The grey man ignored him. Undeterred, the young man signalled the barman to bring another bottle, and poured a generous helping into the grey man's glass. At that, the grey man looked up. "Thanks…?"

"Bruno."

The grey man nodded. "Faucher."

"You have been asking questions," the young man went on. "Looking for someone. A man with a twisted face."

"Was looking," mumbled Faucher. "Too late. He was here, he was seen. Then vanished, like he always did. Years ago… I've lost track."

"Years ago… at the Opera House?" prompted Bruno. "The one you want… he was a musician, a composer? No?"

"Composer? I don't know… Music, yes. Play anything, sing anything. Devil's face, angel's voice. Tricky voice – come out of nowhere, sound like anything, put you to sleep, make you afraid."

"And what did you want with him?"

"Want? Revenge! He murdered my brother. But what's your interest? You're hardly more than a kid…"

"Revenge. He murdered my father."

O-O-O

Erik had been working for several hours in his studio, but he went outside during the afternoon, to stretch his legs in the garden and breathe some fresh air, before the early winter darkness closed in.

Paul came running up to him, Madeleine and Annette following close behind him. "Papa, Papa, I want a pony, but Maman says I can't have one."

Erik caught Paul and swung him high in the air. "Ponies are not really nice, you know. One end bites, the other end kicks, and the middle bit is uncomfortable." He set the child back on the grass. "Do you know what would be better than a pony? A tree."

"A tree? How is that good?"

"Not just any tree. The big one in the middle of the lawn. How would you like a little house in the branches, that you would have to climb a ladder to get to? And then you could have picnics there, and look down on everyone else."

"Yes! Can we do it now?"

"It takes time. First, we have to go and climb the tree and look at the branches, while there are no leaves, to decide where the house would fit." Erik glanced at Madeleine. She said nothing, but her expression was eloquent. He went on, "But, Paul, Maman does not like the idea of us climbing in the tree. She is afraid that we might fall. So we must be very careful. We must promise Maman, and promise each other, that we will not go climbing alone, only together. Then you can look after me, and I can look after you. If you promise, then tomorrow we will both put on old clothes, and investigate the branches."

Later, after Paul had been put to bed, Erik joined Madeleine in her sitting room, in good time to take her through to dinner. When the maid had left the dining room, Madeleine shook her head at Erik. "Tree houses! I worried about him falling off a pony, and you want to take him up a tree!"

"Paul is only three, too young for ponies. The tree will not try to throw him off. And I shall fix a net under it. Paul can roll around on the net and treat it as a toy, but it will catch him safely should he fall. I know you want to keep him safe, Madeleine, and so do I, but he cannot live a life wrapped in cotton wool."

"I suppose not. I don't know where he got the idea of the pony, though. It is not as though you and I have been riding recently." She laid a hand on her stomach, where the curve of her second pregnancy was beginning to show.

"He can learn to ride when he is older, but not now. Designing and building a tree house should take his mind off it, at least while this mild weather holds. I do not think either of us would wish to clamber about in a tree in rain or snow."

"If the weather breaks… perhaps you could take him to the swimming pool, if it is available? That poor little girl from Capelle who drowned, last summer… It makes me think that it would be better if Paul could swim. Riding can be dangerous, and that can come later. But swimming is for safety. Let him learn that first. You should find him a more willing pupil than I was!"

Madeleine had once mentioned casually that, when she was a child, her mother sometimes took her riding, as an occasional treat. Erik had no objection to hiring horses for them, and he began taking her out regularly. Madeleine revelled in the freedom of letting the horse watch where they were going. When her balance had improved to the point where they could gallop across a meadow, the movement and excitement left her flushed and laughing with pleasure. Erik used horses as transport rather than a source of enjoyment, but he was a competent horseman. In his younger days, he had learned to ride and swim, to use boats and weapons, and any other skill which might assist him in surviving a hostile world.

This had led to another activity which was less pleasant for Madeleine. Erik had been startled to find that she could not swim. When he recalled that she had gone into the Opera House lake to save him, her action seemed brave to the point of folly. He found an enclosed, heated swimming pool which could be hired for private use, and set about giving her this skill. She soon learned basic strokes, but did not like it. Unable to see the pool edge, when she could not touch bottom she felt lost indeed. But Erik wanted her to learn, and she persisted, to please him. Eventually she reached the point where she could let herself fall into deep water, fully clothed, and find her way up to the surface. Treading water, she would feel about her for support. She learned to follow his voice to the poolside, despite the confusing echoes, or to catch a rope thrown to her, and be pulled to the edge. After a session when she had done everything he asked, she changed into dry clothes, but sat trembling with cold and weariness, while he sent an attendant to fetch a hot drink for her.

"Very well, Madeleine. I had hoped that this achievement would give you pleasure, but I see that it is a misery, endured for my sake. We shall not do it again. But do you have any idea how many people drown from accidentally falling into water, simply because they cannot do what you can now do? Maybe you will never need this ability, but it pleases me to know that you have it. Thank you for gratifying this whim of mine."

Madeleine came back to the present as Erik said, "That is sensible. Tomorrow he and I shall climb the tree, but the first wet day, I shall try to interest him in swimming. There may be a story of shipwrecked sailors or some such in one of his picture books, which can lead into the subject."

O-O-O

The policeman looked around the ransacked office, attended by the manager.

"We've never been burgled before. I mean, what did they hope to find? Yes, the petty cash, of course. A clock, and a few ornaments. They rifled through the files, leaving a terrible mess, but what good does that do them?"

"We have had a few other robberies like this. Offices like yours are less well secured, just because the owners don't think they need to fear theft. The paperwork… well, we think the robbers are looking for clues to wealthy households, finding new targets. I suggest you get better locks, and some bars on the windows. If that is all, I will leave you to your clearing up."

O-O-O

Bruno and Faucher sat together in Bruno's room in a cheap guesthouse.

Faucher grumbled into his drink, one hand scratching in his grey hair. "We saved his life, my brother and me. Somebody'd shot him. He was out cold, bleeding… We bandaged him up. Saved his life…"

"And then?" prompted Bruno.

"Well, we had our living to earn, didn't we? I mean, he was worth a bit, a freak like that. We didn't hurt him. We fed him, gave him a roof over his head…"

"Put him on display, in a cage? Charged people admission to see him?"

"Just earning a living, like I said. Never hurt him, maybe just stirred him up a bit, to make a show…" Faucher glanced up shiftily, shrugged and returned his attention to his drink. "He was stubborn, at first. Sat huddled in a corner, hiding his face. We knew how to deal with that. Some animals act that way. You can't just poke them with a stick to make them move, the customers don't like that. But that cage – we used to keep a lion in it, lazy beast. So we learned how to make electricity, and we wired up the metal floor. A dose of that makes them get up and move, lion or monster. The monster learned quicker than the lion. When the people came in, he'd stand up and look at them, or we'd go for the switch.

"See, we had a few acts. There was a family group, acrobats. The dad played fiddle while the youngsters performed. One evening after the show, the monster said… he didn't talk much, you know? But he could talk like a professor when it suited him. He spoke to the dad, said he wasn't fit to handle a musical instrument, he should be ashamed of himself for making such noises. The oldest boy – he'd had a few drinks – he grabbed up the fiddle and bow, shoved them through the feed slot into the monster's cage, and said, 'Let's see you do better, then.' Well, dad, he made a fuss, said the monster would smash his fiddle. But he didn't.

"He picked up that fiddle like it was a baby. He looked it all over, tapped it, tweaked the pegs, and I don't know what all. Then he started to play. My God – it was magic. Sweetest music you ever heard, but sad – crying sad. Then he played the tune that the acrobats used in the act, but he played it right, and we realised how bad the old man played it.

"So then the monster offered us a deal. He'd play for the acrobats, and he'd play for the customers. We could challenge them, let them bring in any instrument and he'd play it. But in return, he wanted us to disconnect the electrics. He knew how it all worked, too. No chance to fool him. And we couldn't shock him to make him play, shocks would only make him twitch. We gave his idea a try, and it brought in good custom. Then he offered another deal. He could sing as well as play. We hadn't known that, but by God it was true. Make the show even better, he said. Devil with the voice of an angel. But of course he wanted something. Decent clothes, he said. I mean, he was decent enough. We'd had to take his own stuff off him when we patched him up, no sense in letting the blood make even more of a mess of it, but we got a fair price when we sold it. We gave him an old shirt and trousers, good enough for a cage. But not good enough for his highness. A new suit, he said. Clean linen. Polished shoes. Load of nonsense, really, but we went along with it, and he kept up his side of the bargain and sang for us. We'd got used to him by then.

"Too used to him, maybe. Got careless. One morning he was gone. The week's takings gone, too. My brother was locked in the cage, strangled with his own belt. Swore I'd get the monster for that. You'd think he'd be easy to find, but no… Well, what's the story about your father?"

"Not even a story. He never locked up the monster, or made money out of him, but he still ended up dead. Strangled. I did not know, not then, not all of it. My mother kept it from me. But on her own deathbed, she told me. And I made a promise that I would avenge my father."

"All very well, but you've got to find the monster first. Can't be done."

"Yes, it can. You did not pay enough attention to his music. He makes music, that's what he lives for. He has no easy way to get it performed, not since he left the Opera House. But I was sure he'd want it published. I tried the music shops, and I went to concerts. I wasted a lot of time at first, because I thought he would write opera, but he doesn't."

"You're not going to tell me you found some wonderful new composer, and you recognised him by the style?"

"Oh, it wasn't that easy. And he publishes under several different names. But I traced them. Found his agent. That took a few attempts, as well. But I got the man. Got his real name, or the one he uses now, and his address. Went to the town, asked a few careful questions. 'Oh, you mean Monsieur Lisle? Unfortunate man, disfigured, you know. Lives very quietly.'"

"What?! You know where he is? Why are we just sitting here? Let's get the bastard!"

"Don't be stupid. Do you want to end up like your brother? You should know by now, he is smart and tricky, and he kills. I have more sense than to tackle him by myself. But with two of us, it's possible. And now… he has a weakness. I know how we can get him."

O-O-O O-O-O


	26. 26: Erik Vulnerable

26: Erik Vulnerable

Madeleine and Annette dawdled around the shops, picking up a few items for the house, one or two things for the baby. They chatted to friends, then set off for home in the gathering December twilight. The half-mile from Capelle to their house was a pleasant walk in mild weather, and Madeleine had found that walking while pregnant was beneficial. They turned a corner and crossed the arched bridge over the river. If there was any warning sound, the water noise masked it. Suddenly they were both seized from behind and pulled to the ground.

Annette found that a bag of some sort had been pulled over her head. When she tried to remove it, her hands were knocked brutally away and bound with a cord. "Madame – " she gasped. A blow to her head silenced her.

"Don't fight, Annette," Madeleine's voice said shakily. "It won't help."

"Do like she says," a rough voice spoke from somewhere. "Keep quiet, both of you, and you won't get hurt. Make any trouble, and you'll soon wish you hadn't."

They were dragged off the road and down a grassy bank, under the shadow of the bridge. Annette felt more rope being bound round her ankles. The blindfold was lifted slightly, a gag tied over her mouth, and her eyes covered again before she could see anything in the gloom.

"Now listen, you, servant girl." This was a different voice, younger, but just as hard. "We're going to let you go, and you are going to carry a message to your boss. You tell him that if he wants his wife back in one piece, it's going to cost him. Fifty thousand francs. If he talks to the police – if he talks to anybody – he won't see her again. He has tomorrow to get the cash, then we will contact him to arrange delivery. Understand?"

Annette nodded, then tried to force a question through the gag.

"It's all right, Annette." Madeleine's voice was low but fairly calm. "I am bound, but not hurt. Tell Monsieur that."

"Enough talk!" Annette felt a tug at her arms, then realised that her left hand was untied. "All right. You have one hand loose. The other, and your feet, are tied to a bush. By the time you pick yourself free, we'll be gone. Carry your message!"

O-O-O

Erik was at his piano in the studio, absorbed in playing an intricate piece, when the door from the garden burst open and Annette stumbled in. At a glance, he saw the girl's distress, that Madeleine was not with her, that it was fully dark outside. He leapt to his feet.

"Monsieur! Madame has been kidnapped! They want money… they sent me to tell you…"

 _Madeleine!_ An insane impulse carried Erik to the open door, but the empty darkness brought him to a standstill. Madeleine was in danger – but where? How much time had been lost already? Whirling to face Annette, he seized her arms and shook her.

"Where the hell were _you?!_ It's your job to take care of her!"

Annette turned even whiter than she was already, clearly shocked by this assault where she had looked for safety. She had never recoiled from his face, but now she flinched away from his rage, unable to break his grip, and he felt her shudder.

Erik had learned long ago how to create panic in others, sometimes for mere amusement, sometimes to make them incapable of opposing him. Now, the fear which he caused was working against him. He could tell that Annette was near to fainting or to hysterics, which would render her useless to him. Desperately he fought for self-control. He could do nothing without knowledge, knowledge he must get from this terrified girl. Releasing his bruising hold, he put one hand on her shoulder and guided her to a chair, then stepped back. "Sit. Draw breath. Tell me what happened."

Annette gasped out her story, the words initially rushed and confused. Gradually she grew more coherent, more careful to tell him every detail.

"Two of them, you say?" he asked, when she had finished.

"Two that I heard. If there were others, they did not speak. But… as they were leaving… I heard a clattering, a noise of wood. It was a boat! Yes, I did not realise until now. Oars being used. They must have moored a boat under the bridge, taken Madame away in it."

"Good, Annette! That gives me something to work on. The river is high. They would have gone downstream. Rowing against the current would be too slow." He paced the room, thinking furiously. Annette watched him, until he came to a halt in front of her. "Listen, Annette. If all they want is money, then I will pay whatever they ask to get Madeleine back safely. But I am afraid… that there may be some more sinister purpose behind this."

"Yes… I wondered. You are well-off, but there are many richer people who might have been made targets. Why you…?"

Erik studied the girl, wondering how much he could ask of her. He tended still to think of her as the shy schoolgirl who had first come to the house before Paul's birth, but she had matured into a competent young woman in the last few years, acquiring much of Madeleine's practical nature.

"Annette, you are fond of Madame, are you not?"

"Oh yes, Monsieur! She has been like a wise elder sister to me. If there is any way that I can help, I beg you to make use of me."

"I think you can help. Did anyone see you come to the house? Strangers outside, or the servants here?"

"No, no one. That's why I came in through the garden, to keep the secret. Those men said not to tell anyone."

"First, we must explain Madame's absence to the other staff. Annette, you are very dishevelled. You must put your appearance to rights, and school yourself to appear calm. Then go to Madame Brun with a message from me, that Madame and I will be dining out tonight. Apologise for the short notice. Let us say… when Madame was in town with you, she met some old friends who invited us to have dinner with them at the hotel. Madame remained there, and I am going out to join her. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Monsieur." Annette stood up and glanced at the tall window, turned into a mirror by the night outside. She tweaked her gown and ran a hand over her hair. "Five minutes with a brush and I shall be presentable again. When I have spoken to Madame Brun, then I can give Paul his supper and put him to bed. I have done it before when Madame was out."

"Good. Later, we may have to account for Madame's failure to return tonight…"

"Perhaps… she will be taken ill at dinner. You might find it better to engage a room at the hotel for her, rather than bring her home through the night air."

"Clever girl, yes, this is the way to manage. I am going to collect some things, then go out to see what may be seen. But I wonder… I may want to contact you again, without the other servants knowing. I want you to spend as much time as you can here in the studio, without appearing to behave strangely." He went to a table, where many papers lay scattered. "You may say that I have asked you to copy some outlines for me." He pushed some pages into a pile. "How much you do is up to you, but look occupied, if anyone asks."

"I shall do all as you say, Monsieur."

O-O-O

Madeleine sat huddled in the bow seat of the boat, listening to the steady pull of the oars and the gurgling of the river beneath them. Her hands were tied before her, a cord securing them to some part of the boat. Perhaps that was just as well. Had she been free, she would have had to decide whether to escape into the water. She was sure that a quick leap would take the kidnappers by surprise. The darkness gave her an advantage. She could not smell a lantern, and the men would not want to risk drawing attention with one. But she remembered enough of her swimming lessons to know that a cold, fast-flowing river was far more deadly than the pool she had learned in, and her winter-thick clothes would be a serious burden. Best that she was not tempted to try. She snuggled her shoulders more deeply into her sable coat, and tried to keep calm.

The boat ground against a stone wharf, and the men tied it up, then each took one of Madeleine's arms, hauling her up on to the paving, hustling her into some kind of enclosure. She smelled dust, straw, grain. A barn. Downstream from the bridge… she knew where she was. Oak Barn, where hay and crops were stored at harvest, ready to be loaded on barges and taken to market. Too far from home for a walk, but she and Erik had often ridden this way, sometimes sheltering here if a shower overtook them. At this season there would be no use – no legitimate use – for the building, not until next summer. No disturbance. She heard a match struck, the rattle of a lantern, and hoped fervently that they would be careful with it. Fire would be deadly in this place.

One of the men led her forward, a little more carefully. She stopped when her foot felt some soft obstruction. "Keep still," the man said. Something hard – she guessed a dog collar – was put round her neck and locked into place, and a rope lay across her shoulder. He released the cords from her wrists. "Leave the collar and rope alone, or we'll tie your hands again. That's a bed, in front of you. Sacks, straw, a few blankets. You'll manage. To your left, there's a box with a bottle of water and some bread. To the right, a bucket for when you need it. I've even rigged up a sacking screen, give you a little privacy. The rope will let you reach all this. Don't do anything stupid. We've got no grudge against _you_."

Suggesting that they did have a grudge against Erik, Madeleine thought to herself, although keeping her face expressionless. Saying nothing, she sat down on the makeshift bed.

"Doesn't say much, does she?" she heard the man say to his companion. "Wonder if she's dumb as well as blind?"

"She talked to the maid," replied the other, older voice. "Don't complain. Most women in her place would be yammering away like a flock of geese by now."

"You want ransom," Madeleine said quietly. "My husband will pay to get me back unharmed. But the amount… a day will not be long enough. He may have to sell the house, or raise a loan on it. That takes longer. Be patient and you'll get what you want. Ask the impossible and you will get nothing."

"Shut up, you." The older voice again. "I liked it better when she was quiet."

Madeleine had done what she could to throw a little doubt into their minds, to try to buy time for Erik to deal with the situation. No point in making them angry. She lay on the bed, and schooled herself to wait patiently. Erik would not fail her.

O-O-O O-O-O


	27. 27: Searching

27: Searching

Erik, clad in black, masked and gloved, worked his way along the river. He checked every creek and overhanging tree to see if a boat was hidden there, and side-tracked to farms, barns and outbuildings, looking for signs of illicit occupation. It was an effort to keep focused on the systematic search, and not to be distracted into thinking of what Madeleine was going through. She had once, long ago, been seized by strangers and raped. That must be vivid in her memory now. He hoped, as she must be hoping, that these men were truly seeking ransom, for then it would be in their own interest to keep her unharmed.

Ransom… if it was only ransom, he would pay. He and Madeleine chose to live in fairly modest style, on the income he made from his music. But he had a reserve of money, obtained less honestly in his past, secreted away in various places. Yes, he would pay. But once he had her safe again… then _they_ would pay. Who did those men think they were dealing with? Monsieur Lisle, who lived quietly, made no trouble, tried to find acceptance despite his malformed face? But that identity was just another kind of mask. Erik felt that mask slipping now, as need drove him to unleash his deadly power. He recalled the words Madeleine had spoken years ago, on the night that he had sung Christine out of her coma. "We can let the Phantom sleep. But if he is ever needed… he can wake again." Yes. He must put aside fruitless speculation, and focus his mind on what mattered at this moment. The hunt. He would find his prey, and when he did, he would have vengeance. The kidnappers would face the lethal wrath of the Phantom of the Opera.

But… perhaps they already knew their enemy. Vengeance could work both ways. He had triumphed over adversaries in the past, some of them still alive. He recalled those bitter days when he had defied the whole world, trampled over those in his way, dared them to do their worst. What could anyone do but kill him? And what would that matter? But now… now in these days of unforeseen happiness… it did matter. It mattered because he was not the only target. He thought of Madeleine, and of little Paul. They had healed a heart which he once thought was stone. And a heart of flesh can be wounded, can be broken. If his past should destroy their future… how could he live with that?

Erik forced his mind back to the present problem. He had reached the end of the farmed lands. Before him, a stretch of flat, marshy, infertile ground bordered the river for many miles downstream. No hiding place there. Muttering a curse, he realised that he had chosen the wrong side of the river. He peered across. The night was dark, but not too dark for his night-vision, trained by years of living in the bowels of the Opera House. Trees over there, and distant farms, more possible refuges. He considered swimming, but his coat pockets were heavy with useful items. To swim would ruin the bullets in his pistol, and would leave him uncertain about whether to search upriver or down. He still had more than half the night left. Turning, he sped back to the bridge, far more swiftly than he had come, and began his painstaking search on the other bank.

O-O-O

Success. Erik circled the barn warily. Were they really such amateurs as not to realise that a river was an unmistakable trail? Or did they expect him to assume that they had gone by road? Even the boat was here, moored openly at the wharf, visible in the hint of grey dawn which crept into the world.

A fragment of lamplight gleamed from an air-vent in the wall. He moved silently until he found a vantage point which gave him a view inside. The lamp was hung near the door. Beneath it, a man sat on a box, a game of solitaire laid out on another box before him, a glass near his hand. As he took a drink, his face turned up to the light, and memory stabbed out of Erik's past. Faucher! No coincidence, this, no simple ploy for ransom. This was personal.

Erik moved his position slightly. There was Madeleine on an improvised bed. Unmoving, but not asleep; he could see the tension in the way that she lay. He must be careful. He would get only one chance at this. But where was the other man? He moved on in his search.

O-O-O

Faucher finished his glass, and reached for the bottle, but it was empty. He swore, then continued to grumble to himself. "Cocky kid, thinks he's so smart. It's too complicated. He wants the money as well as the monster. It'll go wrong. We've got the bait. The monster'll come. Just need to keep it simple. Simpler than this." Heaving himself to his feet, he slouched to where Madeleine lay. "On your feet, you." He released the rope from the wall and jerked at the collar. "Getting light. Need to have you where you can be seen."

Madeleine had taken off her coat and spread it on the bed as an extra blanket. She clutched it to her chest as she got to her feet, but Faucher did not giver her time to put it on. She followed him out through the barn door, stumbling a little when he tugged impatiently at the rope. "Gotta tie you up around here somewhere, where he'll see you. But he won't see me…" He pushed her to stand against a tall post at the waterside, part of a crane used for loading barges. "Damned coat is in the way…" He pulled the fur from her arms and threw it on the ground, then stared in shock at her rounded body.

"Bitch! Hell-spawn bitch! Bad enough to live with the monster, but to breed more monsters…!" With a vicious heave on the rope, he threw her down on the stone-paved wharf, then kicked her hard in the belly. Madeleine cried out at the unexpected attack, and tried to curl into a ball. Faucher started to swing another kick, only to feel his ankle seized in a powerful grip that jerked him off his feet.

Erik had been watching from cover as Faucher took Madeleine out to the wharf. He could still afford to be careful, as there seemed no immediate threat to her. But at Faucher's sudden assault, red rage blazed in Erik's eyes. Without thought, he launched himself at the man. Catching the swinging foot in a trick learned in boyhood from gypsy tumblers, Erik jerked Faucher off-balance. Keeping the momentum, seizing the other ankle, he whirled the man into the air, back-downward and then head-downward. What a tumbler would have turned into a back somersault became, for Faucher, a head-first crash to the stones, with Erik's weight thrown on top of him to increase the force. Faucher landed with a crunching thud, and a gasp of exhaled air. Then he lay still.

Erik leapt to Madeleine's side. "Madeleine! He hurt you – how bad?"

"Erik! I knew you'd come… Erik, be careful. There is another one…"

"Not near. I checked. But you…"

"I… I'll live. Just let me rest for a minute."

Taking off his coat, Erik folded it and slipped it under her head, then covered her with the fallen fur. With a knife, he carefully cut the collar free from her neck.

"The other one… the young one," she said slowly. "He left… he said he was going to our house… to make sure you had not sent for the police."

"How long ago? Do you know?"

"Half an hour, maybe. Less than an hour, anyway."

"Then he will not be back for a while. We'll be gone by then."

"Erik, this man… the one who did this… Did you kill him?"

Erik hesitated for a moment. "Yes."

"How?"

"Crushed skull. Does it matter?"

"Yes… because now, we don't want the police either. You must… give him to the river. With luck, it will carry him far away before he is found. His head… yes, he could have been swept against a bridge pier, or over a weir. The river will account for him. Set the boat adrift, too. Capsize it."

"Yes… that would work! How clever of you to see that so quickly."

"Not quickly… I lay awake all night, knowing that you would come for me, wondering what would happen when you did. I rather thought there might be deaths…"

He sighed. "And you once asked me never to kill again."

"I never imagined a situation like this. So long as you and I come out of this alive, I would cheerfully trample the corpses of our enemies." She ran her hand gingerly over her body where Faucher's kick had landed.

Erik slipped his mask off, leaned and swiftly kissed her cheek. "My brave, strong lady," he murmured, then went to follow her advice. He heaved the body into the river, using an oar to push it out into the current. There was a little blood on the stones, but he swilled it away with river water from the boat bailer. Going down into the boat, he fastened a rope to the far gunwale, so that he would be able to pull it over from the wharf.

" _Erik!_ " Madeleine screamed, and a gunshot rang out at the same moment. Bruno had appeared from behind the waterside crane, and now stood on the wharf, taking aim for a second shot. Erik, at a disadvantage in the boat, leapt for the wharf, knowing he would be too slow.

Bruno was between Madeleine and the water's edge. Impulsively she rolled sideways, knocking the feet from under him, toppling him into the water. Too near the edge to stop, she splashed in after him, and both vanished beneath the surface.

Erik ran to the end of the wharf and peered desperately at the water, brown and opaque, surging powerfully. Useless to go in blind – _Madeleine, where are you?_

Ten seconds passed, twenty – there was a disturbance below the surface, a few yards out and downstream of the wharf. Madeleine's face appeared, gasping for air. In a moment, the current took her under again, but in that moment, Erik hit the water in a flat dive which took him straight to her. Clutching her dress, he hauled her to the surface, then locked one arm under her chin to keep her face up, as he turned to swim powerfully for the bank. There the water shallowed a little, letting them stand waist-deep, Madeleine coughing and panting as she clung to him. He helped her up on to the bank and then climbed out himself, scanning the river for any sign that the man had surfaced. The brown water rolled on blankly.

Madeleine stumbled to her feet, swaying, water streaming from her clothes. Erik quickly took hold of her to support her. "God, this cold will kill you. Back to the barn, out of the wind at least. Can you walk?"

She nodded, winding an arm round his body, and he helped her along the path. They were both icily wet, but Madeleine became aware that, under her hand, Erik's side was wet but warm. She snatched her hand away. "You're bleeding!"

"The shot grazed across my ribs. Some skin gone, nothing important."

In the barn, Erik rapidly stripped the wet clothes from Madeleine, gritting his teeth as he saw the blackening bruise on her abdomen. He settled her on the makeshift bed, wrapping her in all the blankets he could find.

"Damn my cold skin! If I try to hug you I will only chill you more. And we cannot have a fire here."

She squirmed into the blankets, rubbing herself dry, and reached out a hand to touch him. "I will get warmer now. Erik, care for yourself," she stuttered through chattering teeth. "That river was too cold even for you."

He peeled his clothes off, twisted them into some sacks to squeeze out the worst of the water, and dressed again, pausing to tear a strip from his shirt and bind it round the bullet-slash on his side. Going outside, he retrieved Madeleine's sable coat, his own coat and his mask, still lying on the wharf. Once again he checked the river for any sign that the young man had survived, but saw nothing. He returned to the barn and added both coats to Madeleine's coverings.

"No one around. Madeleine, we need to get you home. The boat is still here. I could row us as far as the bridge…"

"I'm not letting you row with an injury, against the current. Besides, the boat must be set adrift, to account for the bodies in the water. Please, Erik, do that now, when there is no one to see…"

She was growing agitated, and he thought it best to do as she wished. When he returned, she seemed calmer, and he sat beside her to discuss their next move.

"We need a carriage. Annette could arrange that, if I can get a message to her." Rummaging in his coat pocket, he produced paper and pencil, and wrote a note. "Perhaps I can find a farm worker, someone who would carry the note for pay. I told Annette to wait in the studio until she heard from me." He paused to think. "If I cannot find a messenger, I must go myself. I don't want to leave you, but you must be cared for, and quickly."

Madeleine nodded, shivering. "Erik – when you put your coat under my head as a pillow, it felt rather lumpy. By any chance, was one of the lumps your pistol?"

"Yes. And if I had had enough sense to keep it on me, I could have dealt with the second man and spared you the whole river episode. He must have changed his mind about going to our house, or he could not have come back so soon. We might have been safely away…"

"I believe the two men did not really trust one another. Perhaps the younger one lied about going back to the house, so that he could creep back and see if the other was keeping to their plan, or not. But that's done and past. You have to go now. Leave the pistol with me." She smiled shakily. "If anyone intrudes, the sight of a blind woman waving a gun around should frighten them away!"

O-O-O O-O-O


	28. 28: A Price to Pay

28: A Price to Pay

Erik slipped away, but was back within a quarter of an hour. Remembering that Madeleine had reason to be afraid, and was holding a loaded gun, he called her name before opening the door. She welcomed him back with relief. He had found a boy fishing, who was happy to earn a few francs by carrying the message, with the promise of a further payment from Annette. Now, they just had to wait.

"You look pale, Madeleine. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes." She sighed wearily. "Tear a piece from a blanket, and fold it into a pad for me. I'm bleeding." She gestured vaguely at her body.

Erik made a low sound of pain. "I'm sorry. I was afraid of that…"

"Faucher didn't like that I was pregnant… It looks like he got his wish."

Erik did what he could to make Madeleine comfortable. "You knew his name?"

"I listened to them talking, in the night. I don't know why he hated you so."

Erik told her the story of his imprisonment by the Faucher brothers, and his escape. "I did not recognise the younger man, though. I do not know what he had against me."

"He said you killed his father. His name was Bruno."

"Ah. Then I do know who he was." Erik paused. "And he had a true grievance. Oh, Madeleine, why did I ever let you bind yourself to a bloody-handed destroyer like me?"

"Stop calling yourself names. Tell me about Bruno."

"He was the son of Carlotta, who became prima donna at the Opera House. Carlotta had her son when she was quite young. I did not know her then, but I found out later. She kept it quiet, placed the child in a foster home. She was determined to make a triumphant career, and she succeeded. She always had a powerful voice, and the knack of pleasing audiences. If she was never much of an actress, she could play one role to perfection, the role of a great diva. She did not abandon her son, though. She visited him, and as her fame grew, I think he regarded himself as a sort of prince in hiding, keeping his mother's secret until the day came when she would present him to the world."

"And his father?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably. "You have not forgotten Fonta, the Opera House principal tenor, who was unfortunate enough to get in my way on the night when I abducted Christine. Fonta was Bruno's father. Legitimately so – he and Carlotta were married soon after they first met, although it was considered better for their careers not to advertise the fact. Carlotta… came from a less than respectable background. I think Fonta felt that the boy was an embarrassment, but he wanted no public scandal. Carlotta died two years ago. I do not know how Bruno found me."

Madeleine repeated snatches of conversation she had heard, of how Bruno had followed the trail of published music. Erik sat silent for a long time.

"Betrayed… by my music," he said at length. "That… is a hard blow."

"Don't be defeated by him," Madeleine encouraged. "Use different names, more agents. Sell your work abroad. Make sure that no one else can repeat the trick."

"Bruno knows, now. If he gets out of the river alive…"

"I don't think so." Madeleine sighed. "I had… just a moment to prepare myself, as I rolled to the edge. I remembered what you had told me about cold water. I clamped my mouth shut, held my nose. As I went under, I felt my lungs heaving, but I did not allow them to draw in water. Bruno… I doubt if he had ever been taught such things. We went to the bottom together in a tangle. He soon stopped moving. I kicked away from him, trying to get to the surface. He felt very still…"

Erik held Madeleine's hand, imagining her terror at that blind plunge into the clawing cold water. "You have great courage, and I am very glad of it. But… I am sorry about Bruno. He had never harmed me."

"Until now," Madeleine pointed out. "He was the driving force of the pair. He kidnapped me, tried to kill you. And… do you think, if he had succeeded, that he would have left me alive? No, if I were in the same place, I would do the same again."

They stayed in the barn for nearly two hours. Erik explained how Annette had carried the message to him, and the steps which they had taken to keep the kidnap secret from the other staff. Madeleine grew tired, her speech slower, but there was still something on her mind. "Erik, you are wounded."

"It's nothing, just a scratch…"

"I know you and your 'nothing.' I felt your blood running over my hand when we escaped from the river. When we get home, you must be attended to. You should… go to your dressing room, take off these damp clothes and wash the river water from the wound. You cannot bandage ribs properly yourself. Put on fresh trousers, then come back into our room. Annette can dress the injury for you. In my presence it is not improper, and she is too sensible to be disconcerted by a glimpse of your bare chest. Please, Erik. Promise me…"

"Very well, Madeleine. You must be taken care of first, but as soon as you are comfortable, I shall have Annette patch me up."

Reassured, Madeleine tried to relax. After a while, Erik's fisher-boy messenger returned with a brief note from Annette, and received his third reward, well satisfied with his day. Madeleine dozed a little after her sleepless night, trying to ignore the pain growing within her, while Erik periodically checked outside for any signs of movement. Eventually he saw something coming on the track across the fields. A single horse, pulling a box-sided delivery van. The driver was muffled in a long coat and broad hat which, as the distance lessened, Erik recognised as his own. The van pulled up by the barn, and Annette jumped down from the seat.

"I thought a carriage would look out of place among the farms," she explained at once. "The van will draw less notice."

"That is true," agreed Erik. "I had not expected you to drive here yourself."

"Farm-born, remember? I drove horses as a child. And the fewer people who know about this, the better. Your note mentioned Madame's illness. I was not sure if that was part of the story we devised yesterday, but I feared otherwise."

"I am afraid it is true. We have dealt with the kidnappers, but she was injured, and we have both been in the river."

"Oh, poor Madame! I'm sorry. But she can lie down in the back of the van. I had the man at the livery stable line it with hay." She flushed. "I led him to believe… I was meeting a lover. That I wanted a vehicle with a little comfort and privacy."

"Annette, you are a jewel! Whatever I pay you, it is not enough! Come, let us get Madeleine ready to travel."

On Erik's instructions, Annette had brought warm clothes for Madeleine, who was now very ill and lethargic. They wrapped her up, then Erik carried her to the van and settled her there. Erik drove, and Annette sat with Madeleine. On the way, they arranged their stories. The house staff would be told that Madeleine had had a bad fall, and had spent the night in the town. But she wanted to come home, and Erik had hired the van as it would let her lie flat, which she could not easily do in a carriage. When they reached home, they called a doctor for her, but there was little he could do. She had already lost the baby. The doctor prescribed rest and a strengthening diet, and made optimistic comments that she would still be able to have children.

That evening, as dusk fell, Erik went alone into the garden, carrying a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. In a sheltered corner he dug a tiny grave and buried the dead baby, to be absorbed into the earth. Perhaps, if he had cleaned away the detritus of blood clots and torn membranes, he could have seen whether it was boy or girl, normal or disfigured, but that would have been pointless. Born months too soon, it was a lost hope, destroyed by its father's past. And now… what else was lost? Erik made a silent promise, to the child or to himself, that he would plant a lilac tree here. Madeleine loved the scent of lilac. Perhaps, one day, she would sit beneath the tree and think of him with kindness, despite this loss which he had brought upon her. Sadly, he returned to the house.

Madeleine lay very ill for several days, often quietly weeping. The physical pain was the least of it, as she mourned for the lost child, and she only slowly regained her strength. Her sleep was troubled by confused dreams, images of the baby dying in the warmth of her womb, and Bruno dying in the cold river. She had taken a life, and a life was taken from her. Erik and Annette cared for her between them. When Paul asked for her, he was allowed to see her, but warned to be very quiet. Madeleine cuddled him and tried to soothe him, but he soon grew tired of the sickroom, and was happy to go away and play with the housemaids.

Heavy rain had swollen the river further, and there were several drownings during that winter. Scanning the newspapers, Erik recognised both of the kidnappers in the descriptions of unknown victims, many miles downstream. The boat was found too, smashed in its passage over a weir. The deaths were recorded as accidental.

Madeleine was troubled for Erik. He was attentive, ready to do anything she wanted, or just to sit by her if she needed company. But he would not talk, beyond terse necessary remarks. She had no inkling of what he was feeling. She had thought he was worried about repercussions from the deaths, but even with that fear removed, he was still guarded, silent. Eventually she could bear it no longer.

"Erik, why won't you talk to me? Are you grieving for the baby? If you are, won't you share that with me? It is my pain as much as yours."

"Oh, God, Madeleine, don't you think I know that? Don't you understand? I brought this pain on you. I should never have married you, never let you trust me. Don't you know I am the Angel of Death? I used to call myself that, to terrify people. Now... it terrifies _me_. For years I sowed death, not caring if I would have to reap the harvest, because I took thought only for myself. Now… I am not alone. I see death reaching for those I love…"

"But this was not your fault!"

He did not seem to hear her. "I must stop casting that shadow upon you. I have already contaminated you with my plague. You killed a man. You did not intend to, it happened because you defended me. But it preys on your mind. These many nights, I have listened to your broken words of remorse in your sleep. I must…" His words faded to a whisper, and with an effort he continued. "This time, we were lucky. But now, when such danger pursues me, you are threatened too. I must go, far from you, before I truly bring death to you. You will be better off without me, you can forget…"

"Erik, _how dare you!_ How dare you say such a thing to me! Without you, I die. A death of the soul, even if death of the flesh is a little delayed. If living with you risks death, to be without you makes it certain."

"You will have Paul…"

"To face his questions. 'Where is Papa? Why did he go away?' To be with him every day, and mourn that he is not you. To learn to hate him, perhaps, for being a lever that forced you away from me."

Madeleine stretched out a hand to Erik, desperate for his touch, but he backed away, out of reach. Throwing back the covers, she swung her feet to the floor and lurched from the bed, groping for him. Bumping into a chair, too weak to balance, she toppled, but he was there, catching her before she fell, sweeping her up and settling her once more on the bed. "Madeleine, don't! You know you must rest."

"Never, if you leave me! I will follow you, to the ends of the earth, to heaven or to hell. Erik, I took you for better or worse, and I know the worst. I am not the only one to talk in my sleep! Not until long after we were married would you sleep deeply enough at my side, but now you do, and I have heard snatches of your early life that you never wanted me to know. But I do not regret my marriage vows, and I will not allow you to break yours! You vowed to me, till death us do part. You are _mine_!"

"Damn you, woman! You want to chain me?"

"We _are_ chained to each other. You know it." She heaved a long breath. "But I could release you… Erik, take my hand."

Slowly he reached out to her hand. She gripped his in a businesslike clasp, striving for calm.

"You want to be free, Erik?" she said softly. "Then this is all you must do. Tell me that you want to leave me, for your own sake, not mine. Tell me that you are tired of me, that I am a burden, that you would be happier without me. Convince me of this, and I will let you go, with my blessing."

"Madeleine…" He steadied his voice. "Madeleine, you are no burden, but I do want to go. I have stayed here too long. I am not made to be tied down. I will be happier – " But a broken sob choked the lie in his throat. He slumped to his knees at the bedside. Madeleine felt his tears falling on their clasped hands. Reaching across with her free hand, she stroked his bowed head soothingly.

"It's all right. It's all right. I understand. You think that your leaving would be best for me. But Erik, there is no _me_ , there is only _us_. We are like… strands twisted into a rope. Apart, we are nothing. To be together is our strength."

She felt him raise his head, and knew that now he dared to look at her. "I was so sure… that I must leave you… even though it would destroy me. I never thought…"

"That it would destroy me too? Then learn that lesson, Erik. The only life for us is a life together."

O-O-O O-O-O


	29. 29: Healing

29: Healing

It took time for Madeleine to regain her strength, but after this new understanding was reached, she had more reason to fight her way back to health. She and Erik were in accord once more, and he had no more thoughts of leaving her. She wanted to be well, and his main concern was to stop her from pushing her battered body too hard in her efforts to recover. The first time she convinced herself that she was getting better, she rose and walked across her room, but a wave of dizziness sent her crashing to the floor. Hearing her fall, he came rushing in to her. He scolded her roundly for her folly, while picking her up and putting her back to bed with a tenderness that belied his words. The fall started her bleeding again, and reluctantly she accepted the need for more bed rest, tedious though it was. That night, for the first time, she asked him to sing the mesmeric, wordless song which would compel her to sleep. He did so, holding her hand, watching peace erase the pain-lines from her face, grateful beyond words that she had given him this ultimate expression of her trust.

From then on, Erik spent almost all Madeleine's waking hours talking with her, singing to her and playing violin or flute in her room. It was only with difficulty that she talked him out of bringing one of the pianos upstairs. He made a backrest for her which let her sit up a little, still thoroughly supported, and a bed-table to let her use a Braille book or her handicrafts. Paul was allowed to spend some time with her each day, playing counting games with building blocks, or learning the alphabet with wooden letters. Erik and Annette watched to make sure she did not tire herself, and took turns keeping her entertained when she had to lie flat and rest. The household staff were attentive, trying to supply her every need, while Madame Brun made a project of finding recipes that would tempt a jaded appetite and help build her strength.

By Christmas, Madeleine was able to get up for a while, dressed warmly, and to walk a little, although Erik did not want her attempting the stairs. "Yes," he agreed on Christmas Eve, "you shall eat Christmas dinner in the dining room, and help play games with Paul. But you must let me carry you down."

"That seems such a waste of your time." She tried to pout, but spoiled the effect by giggling. "I could just slide down the banister…"

"Behave, woman! You'll have me tearing my hair, such as it is. I thought there was only one child in this house!" The words were scarcely spoken when he wished them unsaid.

Madeleine sensed the cause of his sudden silence. Seating herself on the little sofa by the fire, she beckoned Erik to come and sit beside her, and took his hand. "Erik, you're surely not still blaming yourself for the lost baby?"

"The men were my enemies, not yours. It is justice, in a way, that I should suffer loss for crimes I committed in the past. But it is terribly wrong that you should also suffer."

"As to that, who knows what might have happened, if they had not interfered? A child conceived is no guarantee of a child born alive and whole. But our enemies have paid. Stop punishing yourself."

After that, the lost child remained a quiet, shared grief for both of them. If he felt guilt as well as sorrow, he managed to conceal it from her. They spent a happy Christmas day as a family, although by evening Madeleine admitted to tiredness, and let Erik help her to bed not long after Paul was asleep. As the new year opened and the days began to lengthen, Madeleine was able to walk more, eventually to manage the stairs, even to venture occasionally into the garden, when the weak winter sun encouraged one or two birds to sing. She took it as something of a triumph when Erik began spending time in his music studio again, no longer feeling the need to be with her every moment.

On one such day, when he had been composing through the day and into evening, she resumed her old habit of going into the studio, hinting to him that it was time he left work and came to eat. She heard his soft chuckle as he closed the piano, recognising her summons. They ate together, spent the evening together, then Erik gave Madeleine his arm to help her upstairs, waving away Annette who would have assisted Madeleine if Erik were busy elsewhere.

In Madeleine's room, Erik brushed and braided her hair for the night, and settled her in bed, then leaned to kiss her brow. "Are you comfortable? Is there anything else you want?"

"Yes, there is." She took his hand, then ran her hand up his arm to his shoulder, pulling him a little closer. "I want you, in this bed, tonight."

He gave her another gentle kiss. "Very well. But you have been accustomed to having the whole bed for some time now. If my nearness keeps you awake, I shall slip away later." He went through to his dressing room to change. As he left her, Madeleine murmured softly to herself, "I think I will sleep. I think we both will."

Erik came back and slid into bed. Reaching for him, Madeleine found that he was wearing a warm nightshirt. He was taking nothing for granted, she realised, smiling a little. He took her in his arms, a hug designed to comfort, not to inflame, and she responded in kind. But when he released her and tried to settle her for sleep, she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast. For a moment he caressed her through the silken nightgown, then made himself still. "Madeleine?" he breathed. "Is this what you want? If you have need… I can touch you…"

"I want you to touch me," she replied softly. "Not just with your hands, and not just for my need but for yours too. You feel that need, don't you?"

He pulled away from her a little. "My need would never drive me to hurt you. You have been ill…"

"And now I am better. One thing is lacking, to make me whole again. Your love… the love of your body." She plucked at his nightshirt. "You, not this."

"I do not want to chill you."

"You couldn't chill me now." Unbuttoning the top of her gown, she took his hand again and pressed it against her skin. "Feel my fire. The ocean could not quench me tonight. Erik, hold me. Hold me properly."

Bowing to the inevitable, cautious but willing, he threw aside his own nightshirt, and carefully eased the gown from her. He embraced her again, pulling the blankets closely round both of them, a snug cocoon. Madeleine wrapped her arms and legs about him, sharing her body heat, quickly warming him to match her own warmth, so that he need not hesitate to touch her. In this close contact, she was aware of a different kind of heat growing in him, but she was in no hurry, and trusted him to be patient. His mouth claimed hers, a long, deep kiss, the sensation fresh and new after many celibate weeks. They kissed again and again, pausing only for breath, then Erik turned her to face away from him, and began rubbing her back. She always loved that, and he took pleasure from the sighs which his skilled hands conjured from her. As part of the massage his hands roved, up, down, around, between…

With a soft cry, Madeleine wriggled around to face him again, pushed him on to his back and threw herself against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, her lips seeking his. Repeatedly she kissed him, mouth, cheeks and forehead, then let her lips nuzzle down his throat. A deep hum of pleasure sounded in his chest, while his hands continued to stroke her back and hips. She trailed her mouth across his chest to his nipple, feeling the softness turn hard. With one hand she stroked across his stomach, and down… he gave a long sigh.

"Oh… that is beautiful… but gently, gently, my love. Madeleine… you know I grow old. Sometimes I have needed your help, to find the strength. And sometimes even that was not enough, and I disappointed you…"

"Never," sighed Madeleine into his chest, caressing him more softly. "Never, so long as you love me."

"Ah, that I can do, even if the flesh is weak. But it is not weak tonight. Tonight, my passion should be ridden with a tight rein. No need for spurs."

"Spurs… interesting…" she murmured. "But, Erik, I know you. Whenever you claim to be old… you are about to prove that you are not! What proof should I demand, this time?"

"Impudent wench! You want proof…?" Rolling her on to her back, he parted her knees and slid between them, supporting himself so that he leaned no weight on her body. Madeleine felt with delight the sensation of his hardness slowly entering her softness. Just a little… then he withdrew, to approach again. A little more… and he pulled away from her completely, stifling her small sound of protest with a kiss.

"That was a promise for later," he told her. "You must take things slowly… as I have been telling you ever since you were ill."

"Don't lecture." Taking his head in her hands, she guided it down to her breast. "Find something better to do with your mouth." As he obliged, she panted, "Why tell me to go slowly, when it is you who rides _my_ passion with spurs?"

He freed his mouth, letting his hand continue in its place. "Ah, but we both know, though your passion is a little less swift than mine, it has much more stamina. I promise, we shall reach the end of the race together – even if you take the longer course."

His mouth returned to her breast, then crept down her body. Her hand rested on the back of his neck, suddenly tightening as he reached the core of her desire. No teasing this time; he stayed there, lips and tongue busy, while her breathing quickened, turned to whimpers and moans. Then her nails dug into his shoulder. "Erik… your hand now… hard… please…"

He obeyed, free now to watch her face. His fingers, long skilled in this art, gave her what she needed, pushed her over the precipice of ecstasy. He felt the surge of her body, watched the bliss on her face, and felt a joy in his heart that fully matched her joy of the body. But suddenly into his mind flashed an unwanted image, of when she had fallen into the river. How near he had been to losing her! He could not have survived such a blow. He tried to dismiss the painful thought. As she gradually grew limp and still, he took her into his arms again, cherishing her.

Madeleine's mind drifted, not quite asleep, revelling in this rediscovered nearness, the security of his embrace. Then she jolted awake at an unwanted memory. After the shared danger, this idiot man had thought he ought to leave her! Thought he was bad for her! Even a genius could sometimes be a fool… She caressed him, trying to show with her touch how much she needed him. Instantly he responded, and for a few minutes there was a writhing tangle of arms and legs, as they sought for ever more intimate contact with each other. Then Erik slowed down, grasped her and compelled her to stillness. She made to roll on to her back, to give him easy access, but he prevented her.

"No?" she asked. "Then what?"

"This." He arranged her on her side, facing him, and raised himself up. "Slide your leg under me." Madeleine obeyed, smiling. They had not done this for a while… He settled himself down, the hollow of his waist on her thigh, shifting a little to make sure that none of his bones were digging into her. "Comfortable for you?"

"Oh yes. And this for you?" She brought up her other leg to clasp him about the waist. And now they were close, so close, neither bearing weight, both with hands free. He touched her, here, there, each new touch a delightful surprise. Reaching down, she grasped him firmly and stroked him back and forth across her most sensitive flesh, then guided him to her threshold and left him free to thrust in. He buried himself in her, deep as their love. Then there was no more thought, just delight, as they moved and touched and caressed, until the cascade of passion swept them away.

O-O-O

By the time spring filled the garden with flowers, Madeleine had regained all her strength. She and Erik walked together, rode together, even went boating on the now-placid river, defying the past to wound them again. They valued life and love even more now, when they had come so near to losing them.

One summer day, as they walked along a shady woodland path, Madeleine remarked, "Have you noticed how Annette has become more eager for her afternoons off, these days? I believe she goes walking with the new schoolmaster."

Erik sighed. "I suppose we could not expect to keep her forever. And if this man is not the one, there will be others. Paul will miss her. But I shall make a few enquiries about this teacher, find out if he is trustworthy. And then, perhaps, we should think about some sort of dowry for her. She deserves it. A chest of household linens, perhaps – I believe that is traditional."

Madeleine leaned against Erik and put her arm round his waist. "It's kind of you to think of it. After all, I brought no dowry to you."

He squeezed her shoulders. "If you want me to list all the wealth that you have brought to me… we shall be here all day. But if Annette is to leave us, we shall have to find a new maid for you. Some girl who reads well, and is reliable enough to act as your eyes if I am working."

"And…" Madeleine paused. "…good with babies."

Erik turned and drew her into a close embrace.

O-O-O

It was another fine day, the following spring. Madeleine sat in the garden in warm sunshine, cradling her new son in her arms. Birds sang around her, while the lilac tree above her scented the air. From the path came the padding of small unshod hooves, as Erik led Paul about on the promised pony, one which did not bite or kick, and whose round back was very comfortable.

The past cast no more shadows. Life was good.

O-O-O O-O-O O-O-O

 _(End of Part Four)_


	30. 30: Epilogue

30: Epilogue

Erik stretched himself on the cushioned bench, enjoying the afternoon sun as it warmed him… warmed his old bones. Why shy away from the word? He was old, nearing the traditional threescore years and ten. But the latter part of his life had been so blessed that it was no pain to be old.

He heard the voices of the children across the garden, following their various amusements. There was Paul, nearly seventeen now, his voice steadying into adulthood. A man's firstborn son is special. Erik had always loved the handsome, clever boy, but had been hard put to conceal his disappointment when Paul showed little interest in music. His concealment had not been effective enough. Paul, on his tenth birthday, had come to him and asked to be taught piano, and Erik knew that it was to please the father, not the son. Erik had been a patient teacher, and Paul a diligent pupil. By the end of a year, he could play quite competently, but his heart was not in it. Erik released him from the duty and asked what he would like to do instead. Paul had thrown himself into mathematics and the sciences, and it now looked as though that was the real love of his life. He had learned these things from Erik until he outstripped his father, then able tutors were found for him. Soon he would start university, the first of the fledglings to fly.

Antoine was only twelve, still a child, although not for much longer. He took to music with a casual ease, not very interested in complicated classical forms, but able to get a lively tune out of most instruments. He sang effortlessly, in a pure treble. Enjoy it, boy, while it lasts! And he was already showing considerable talent as a dancer, something which Erik had never aspired to. Listen to him now, counting beats, calling instructions as he danced some steps of his own invention with Michelle.

Little Michelle… not a child of his blood, but as dear to him as his sons. Seven years ago, one morning the gardener had come hammering at the house door, and took them all to see. A little child, no more than three, chained like a dog to the garden gate. She should have been crying, but she made no sound. She was wrapped in a blanket, pulled close about her head and body, just a pair of frightened eyes peering out from the folds. Madeleine had held her and spoken soothing words while Erik cut the chain, and they carried her to the house. It took Madeleine more than an hour to persuade the child to relinquish her blanket, with a storm of sobbing. Erik, standing near, told Madeleine quietly what she could not see, that the little girl had a hare-lip. Madeleine nodded, and went on holding and rocking her, kissing her cheeks and brow, stroking her hair, telling her that everything would be all right. They made enquiries with the police, but when her parents could not be found, they adopted her. She learned confidence and love, and she took upon herself the task of being Madeleine's eyes. A warm, giving child with a beauty of her own, although the world could not see it. But if the eyes of the world grew too burdensome, Erik had investigated the possibilities of surgery. If Michelle ever chose it, it would be done.

Erik wondered if either of the boys would love her as more than a sister, as she grew up. Probably not, having known her since childhood, but if it was her wish, she could make a good wife for someone, if only she were given the chance.

They would be all right… there was enough money… with Madeleine's good management, they would want for nothing. What money could buy, they would have. What money could not buy, love, security, and health, they already had. Yes, they would be fine.

A strange heaviness in his chest made Erik's breathing laborious. Perhaps he could sleep for a while…

O-O-O

The children had noticed that Papa was asleep, and moved their games to the other end of the garden, so as not to disturb him. Later, as the sun moved behind the trees, Paul went to him to tell him it was time to go indoors. Paul found that, for his father, there would be no awakening. Quiet and thoughtful as always, Paul went to Madeleine and brought her there. Her touch told her what Paul's eyes had already seen, that Erik had left them. Madeleine stooped to kiss the misshapen lips, colder now than in life, while her silent tears fell on his face.

There were things that must be done, and Madeleine had never shirked her duties. She called the younger children, and let them see what had happened. There was no outcry. Grave and quiet, they faced the reality of death. Madeleine explained to them that to care for the body was the last act they could perform for someone they had all loved. She sent them to fetch water and clean linen, and there in the garden she washed and shrouded her husband, calm and practical as always, but with the tears running down her face. On an improvised litter, Paul and Antoine carried him to the house.

There Madeleine dressed him afresh, in his most elegant black suit. From a cupboard that the children had never seen opened, she brought a smooth wig of dark brown, and an ivory mask that concealed the distortion of his face. Seating herself, gathering the children around her, she told them the whole story of the Phantom of the Opera, the bad as well as the good. It was a long tale. They absorbed it, saying little. They had known, in general, that Papa's early life had been hard, and that his family had brought him happiness. It would take time for them to come to terms with the evil things which he had once done, and to understand how he had tried to make amends in his later life. They would keep the secrets from other people, but within the family, there was to be no more concealment. He would go to his grave as the Phantom.

The next day, they arranged the funeral, and opened his will, in case he had left any last instructions. Madeleine knew the general terms. She was provided for, for the rest of her life. The children would eventually have to earn their own livings, but there was enough to educate them and to give them a good start in whatever field they chose. But there was another envelope, addressed in Braille to Madeleine, which she had not known was there. In the solitude of the chamber she had shared with Erik, she opened his letter and began to read. It was dated from March, five months ago.

 _My beloved Madeleine,_

 _If you are reading this, then I am dead. Did I have a chance to bid you farewell? If not, let this be my goodbye._

 _This last winter struck a strange chill in me, a chill of grey skies and short days, not warmed by a comfortable house nor the warmth of our family. I think I shall not live through another such winter. So now I must say what I should have said sooner. Madeleine, a new century has opened since first we met. Some things I can deal with. Electric light instead of gas has no mystery for me. In time, automobiles may wipe out horses from our lives. But these are small things. I look at larger things, at what is happening in France, and in Europe as a whole, and I do not like what I see. I think it is time to leave Europe and seek a fresh place. I have considered Quebec, or New Orleans, but there may be other possibilities._

 _I should have spoken sooner, but now, for myself, I have left it too late. I have not the strength to face such a move; it would break the health I have left, and I do not wish to burden you with the invalid that I would become. But when I am dead and buried, then you should take the family and go. Paul is the man of the house now, with a maturity beyond his years. His strength will be your support; let your wisdom be his guide. Care for Antoine and Michelle, until they have grown and can care for you._

 _May life give you all the happiness that you have given me._

 _Erik_

Madeleine put the letter aside, so as not to wet it with her tears. But she had not yet read his last words, for there was another page. Wiping her eyes, she reached for it. Her fingers scanned the top line, and she caught her breath, for this was dated a mere week ago. As she read the words, she seemed to hear his voice speaking them in her ear.

 _Madeleine,_

 _I thought I had said all that I wanted to say, but now I must add to this letter._

 _Madeleine, I think that you are pregnant. Perhaps it is vanity on my part, to believe that a man my age could father another child. And yet you and I know, as no one else could ever know, how our embraces have never lost their sweetness. I look at you now, and I see that your skin glows, your smile is serene. (And, dare I say it? – your ankles are swelling!) I have seen these signs before._

 _If there is to be a new child, that is all the more reason for you to make a new start in the New World. I shall never see our youngest child. But I hope that all will be well for you, and that this can be my final gift. Truly a gift of love._

 _Erik_

O-O-O THE END O-O-O


End file.
